r    •  in    IN  -^w&* 

WINK-A-WAY  LAND 


BY 

EUGENE   FIELD 


AUTHOR  OF 

HOOSIER  LYRICS,  THE  CLINK  OF  THE  ICE 
JOHN  SMITH,  U.  S.  A.,  ETC. 


M.  A.  DONOHUE  &  COMPANY 
CHICAGO 


COPYRIGHT 

^05 
By  M.  A.  DONOHUE  &  COMPANY 


fs 


INTRODUCTION. 


From  whatever  point  of  view  the  character  ot 
Eugene  Field  is  seen,  genius — rare  and  quaint 
presents  itself  is  childlike  simplicity.  That  he 
was  a  poet  of  keen  perception,  of  rare  discrimina 
tion,  all  will  admit.  He  was  a  humorist  as  deli 
cate  and  fanciful  as  Artemus  Ward,  Mark  Twain, 
Bill  Nye,  James  Whitcomb  Riley,  Opie  Read,  or 
Bret  Harte  in  their  happiest  moods.  Within 
him  ran  a  poetic  vein,  capable  of  being  worked 
in  any  direction,  and  from  which  he  could,  at  will, 
extract  that  which  his  imagination  saw  and  felt 
most.  That  he  occasionally  left  the  child-world, 
in  which  he  longed  to  linger,  to  wander  among 
the  older  children  of  men,  where  intuitively  the 
hungry  listener  follows  him  into  his  Temple  of 
Mirth,  all  should  rejoice,  for  those  who  knew  him 
not,  can  while  away  the  moments  imbibing  the 
genius  of  his  imagination  in  the  poetry  and  prose 
here  presented. 

Though  never  possessing  an  intimate  acquaint 
anceship  with  Field,  owing  largely  to  the  dis 
parity  in  our  ages,  still  there  existed  a  bond  of 

3 


4  INTRODUCTION 

friendliness  that  renders  my  good  opinion  of  him 
in  a  measure  trustworthy.  Born  in  the  same 
city,  both  students  in  the  same  college,  engaged 
at  various  times  in  newspaper  work  both  in  St. 
Louis  and  Chicago,  residents  of  the  same  ward, 
with  many  mutual  friends,  it  is  not  surprising 
that  I  am  able  to  say  of  him  that  "the  world  is 
better  off  that  he  lived,  not  in  gold  and  silver  or 
precious  jewels,  but  in  the  bestowal  of  priceless 
truths,  of  which  the  possessor  of  this  book  be 
comes  a  benefactor  of  no  mean  share  of  his 
estate." 

Every  lover  of  Field,  whether  of  the  songs  of 
childhood  or  the  poems  that  lend  mirth  to  the 
out-pouring  of  his  poetic  nature,  will  welcome 
this  unique  collection  of  his  choicest  wit  and 
humor. 

CHARLES  WALTER  BROWN. 

Chicago,  January,  1905. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

The  Bottle  Tree 9 

The  Sugar-Plum  Tree 11 

New  Year's  Eve 13 

Buttercup,  Poppy,  Forget-me-not 15 

Armenian  Folk  Song — The  Mother 17 

Little  Homer's  Slate 19 

The  Dream-Ship 21 

The  Boy 24 

Lady  Button-Eyes 25 

Teeny- Weeny 28 

Pittypat  and  Tippytoe 31 

The  Humming  Top 34 

The  Dinkey-Bird 36 

Fiddle-dee-dee 39 

The  Happy  Household 41 

Good-Children  Street 44 

The  Drum 46 

Three  Valentines 48 

The  Duel 52 

Booh! 54 

Child  and  Mother 56 

Fairy  and  Child 58 

Over  the  Hills  and  Far  Away 60 

The  Hawthorne  Children 62 

Nightfall  in  Dordrecht 65 

Intry-Mintry 67 

5 

I 


6  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

Telling  the  Bees 69 

Hi-Spy 71 

The  Naughty  Doll 72 

Ganderfeather's  Gift 74 

The  Brook 76 

Little  Croodlin7  Doo 77 

The  Bow-Leg  Boy 78 

Hymn 80 

The  Straw  Parlor 81 

Hush-a-By,  Sweet  My  Own 84 

Cobbler  and  Stork 86 

"Guess" 89 

Uhland's  "White  Stag" 91 

A  Piteous  Plaint  About  the  Coquetry  of  Martha 

Clow 92 

Song — My  Heart  is  the  Shore 95 

Our  Two  Opinions 96 

The  Little  Peach 98 

The  Brook  and  the  Boy 100 

To  a  Little  Brook 102 

The  Wanderer ' 105 

Soldier,  Maiden  and  Flower 106 

The  Peace  Christmas  Time 108 

The  Dead  Babe 110 

Recall  of  Boyhood  Joys 112 

The  Song  of  Luddy-Dud 114 

A  Western  Boy's  Lament 1]  6 

My  Playmates 117 

The  Dreams -. 120 

The  Dream-Ship 123 

To  My  Mother 126 


CONTENTS.  7 

PAGE. 

Christmas  Eve 128 

Beranger's  "Broken  Fiddle" 130 

Mary  Smith 133 

In  the  Court  of  Honor 138 

French's  "Republic" 140 

Hymn — Midnight  Hour 141 

Christmas  Morning , 143 

Holly  and  Ivy 145 

To  the  Passing  Saint 147 


THE  BOTTLE  TREE. 


A  Bottle  Tree  bloometh  in  Wink-a-way  land — 

Heigh-ho  for  a  bottle  I  say! 
A  snug  little  berth  in  that  ship  I  demand 

That  rocketh  the  Bottle-Tree  babies  away 

Where  the  Bottle  Tree  bloometh  by  night  and 

by  day 
And  reacheth  its  fruit  to  each  wee,  dimpled  hand ; 

You  take  as  much  of  that  fruit  as  you  list, 

For  colic's  a  nuisance  that  doesn't  exist! 
So  cuddle  me  close,  and  cuddle  me  fast, 

And  cuddle  me  snug  in  my  cradle  away, 
For  I  hunger  and  thirst  for  that  precious  repast — 

Heigh-ho  for  a  bottle,  I  say! 


The  Bottle  Tree  bloometh  by  night  and  by  day — 
Heigh-ho  for  Wink-a-way  land! 

And  Bottle  Tree  fruit  (as  I've  heard  people  say) 
Makes  bellies  of  Bottle-Tree  babies  expand — 
And  that  is  a  trick  I  would  fain  understand ! 

Heigh-ho  for  a  bottle  to-day! 

And  heigh-ho  for  a  bottle  to-night — 

A  bottle  of  milk  that  is  creamy  and  white! 


10  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 

So  cuddle  me  close  and  cuddle  me  fast 
And  cuddle  me  snug  in  my  cradle  away, 

For  I  hunger  and  thirst  for  that  precious  repast— 
Heigh-ho  for  a  bottle,  I  say ! 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  11 


THE  SUGAR-PLUM  TREE. 


. 
Have  you  eyer  heard  of  the  Sugar-Plum  Tree! 

'Tis,  a  marvel  of  gre^at  renown! 
ItTblooms  op"  the  shore^if  the  Lollopop  Sea 

In  the  garden  of  Shut-Eye  tb^vn^ 
The  friiit  that  ilTbears  is"'  so  wondrousiy  sweet, 

(As  ttjpse  who  have  tasted  it  say),        / 
That  good  little  children  have  only"to~eat 

Of  that  friiit  to  be  h'appy  next  day. 


"When  you've  got  to  the  tree,  you  would  have  a 
hard  time 

To  capture  the  fruit  which  I  sing; 
The  tree  is  so  tall  that  no  person  can  climb 

To  the  boughs  where  the  sugar-plums  swing; 
But  up  in  that  tree  sits  a  chocolate  cat, 

And  a  gingerbread  dog  prowls  below — 
And  this  is  the  way  you  contrive  to  get  at 

Those  sugar-plums  tempting  you  so: 


You  say  but  the  word  to  that  gingerbread  dog, 
And  he  barks  with  such  terrible  zest 

That  the  chocolate  cat  is  at  once  all  agog, 
As  her  swelling  proportions  attest. 


12  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 

And  the  chocolate  cat  goes  cavorting  around 

From  this  leafy  limb  unto  that, 
And  the  sugar-plums  tumble,  of  course,  to  the 
ground — 

Hurrah  for  that  chocolate  cat! 


There  are  marshmallows,  gumdrops  and  pepper 
mint  canes, 

With  stripings  of  scarlet  and  gold, 
And  you  carry  away  of  the  treasure  that  rains 

As  much  as  your  apron  can  hold ! 
So  come,  little  child,  cuddle  closer  to  me 

In  your  dainty  white  nightcap  and  gown, 
And  I'll  rock  you  away  to  that  Sugar-Plum  Tree 

In  the  garden  of  Shut-Eye  Town. 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  13 


NEW-YEAR'S  EVE. 


Good  old  days — dear  old  days 

When  my  heart  beats  high  and  bold — 
When  the  things  of  earth  seemed  full  of  mirth. 

And  the  future  a  haze  of  gold ! 
Oh,  merry  was  I  that  winter  night, 

And  gleeful  our  little  ones*  din, 
And  tender  the  grace  of  my  darling's  face 

As  we  watched  the  new  year  in. 
But  a  voice — a  specter's,  that  mocked  at  love — 

Came  out  of  the  yonder  hall; 
"Tick-tock,  tick  tock!"  'twas  the  solemn  clock 

That  ruefully  croaked  to  all. 
Yet  what  knew  we  of  the  griefs  to  be 

In  the  year  we  longed  to  greet? 
Love — love  was  the  theme  of  the  sweet,  sweet 
dream 

I  fancied  might  never  fleet! 
But  the  specter  stood  in  that  yonder  gloom, 

And  these  were  the  words  it  spake : 
"Tick-tock,  tick-tock" — and  they  seemed  to  mock 

A  heart  about  to  break. 


'Tis  new-year's  eve,  and  again  I  watch 
In  the  old  familiar  place, 


14  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 

And  I  am  thinking  again  of  that  old  time  when 

I  looked  on  a  dear  one's  face. 
Never  a  little  one  hugs  my  knee 

And  I  hear  no  gleeful  shout — 
I  am  sitting  by  the  old  hearthstone, 

Watching  the  old  year  out. 
But  I  welcome  the  voice  in  yonder  gloom 

That  solemnly  calls  to  me: 
"Tick-tock,  tick-tock!"— for  so  the  clock 

Tells  of  a  life  to  be; 
"Tick-tock,   tick-tock!"— 'tis  so  the   clock 

Tells  of  eternity. 


ZAT  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  15 


BUTTERCUP,    POPPY,    FORGET-ME- 
NOT. 

Buttercup,  poppy,  forget-me-not — 
These  three  bloomed  in  a  garden  spot, 
And  once,  all  merry  with  song  and  play, 
A  little  one  heard  three  voices  say: 
"Shine  or  shadow,  summer  or  spring — 

O  thou  child  with  the  tangled  hair 
And  laughing  eyes — we  three  shall  bring 

Each  an  offering,  passing  fair!" 
The  little  one  did  not  understand, 
But  they  bent  and  kissed  the  dimpled  hand. 

Buttercup   gamboled  all  day  long, 
Sharing  the  little  one's  mirth  and  song; 
Then,  stealing  along  on  misty  gleams, 
Poppy  came,  bringing  the  sweetest  dreams, 
Playing  and  dreaming — that  was   all, 

Till  once  the  sleeper  would  not  wake! 
Kissing  the  little  face  under  the  pall, 

We  thought  of  the  words  the  third  flower  spake, 
And  we  found,  betimes,  in  a  hallowed  spot 
The  solace  and  peace  of  forget-me-not. 

Buttercup  shareth  the  joy  of  day, 
Glinting  with  gold  the  hours  of  play; 


16  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 

Bringeth  the  poppy  sweet  repose. 

When  the  hands  would  fold  and  the  eyes  would 

close, 
And  after  it  all — the  play  and  the  sleep 

Of  a  little  life— what  cometh  then? 
To  the  hearts  that  ache  and  the  eyes  that  weep 

A  wee  flower  bringeth  God's  peace  again. 
Each  one  serveth  its  tender  lot — 
Buttercup,  poppy,  forget-me-not. 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  17 


ARMENIAN  FOLK  SONG— THE 
MOTHER. 


I  was  a  mother,  and  I  weep; 

The  Night  is  come — the  Day  is  sped- 
The  Night  of  Woe  profound,  for,  oh! 

My  little  golden  son  is  dead ! 


The  pretty  rose  that  blossomed  anon 
Upon  my  mother  breast,  they  stole; 

They  let  the  dove  I  nursed  with  love 
Fly  far  away — so  sped  my  soul! 


That  falcon  Death  swooped  down  upon 
My  sweet  voiced  turtle  as  he  sung; 

'Tis  hushed  and  dark  where  soared  the  lark- 
And  so,  and  so  my  heart  is  wrung! 


Before  my  eyes  they  sent  the  hail 
Upon   my   young   pomegranate   tree — 

Upon  the  bough  where  but  just  now 
A  rosy  apple  bent  to  me! 


18  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 

They  shook  my  beauteous  almond  tree, 
Beating  its  glorious  bloom  to  death — 

They  strewed  it  round  upon  the  ground 
And  mocked  its  fragrant  dying  breath. 


I  was  a  mother,  and  I  weep; 

I  seek  the  rose  where  nestleth  none — 
No  more  is  heard  the  singing  bird — 

I  have  no  little  golden  son! 


So  fall  the  shadows  over  me, 

The  blighted   garden,   lonely  nest; 

Reach  down  in  love,  0  God  above, 
And  fold  my  darling  to  my  breast! 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  19 


LITTLE  HOMER'S  SLATE. 


After  dear  old  grandma  died, 
Hunting  through  an  oaken  chest ! 

In  the  attic,  we  espied 

What  repaid  our  childish  quest; 

'Twas  a  homely  little  slate, 

Seemingly  of  ancient  date. 

On  its  quaint  and  battered  face 
Was  the  picture  of  a  cart 

Drawn  with  all  that  awkward   grace 
Which  betokens  childish  art; 

But  what  meant  this  legend  pray: 

"Homer   drew   this   yesterday ?" 


Mother   recollected   then 

What  the  years  were  fain  to  hide — 
She  was  but  a  baby  when 

Little  Homer  lived  and  died; 
Forty  years,  so  mother  said, 
Little  Homer  had  been  dead. 


This  one  secret  through  those  years 
Grandma  kept  from  all  apart, 


20  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 

Hallowed  by  her  lonely  tears 

And  the  breaking  of  her  heart; 
While   each  year  that  sped   away 
Seemed  to  her  but  yesterday. 


So   the   homely   little   slate 

Grandma's  baby  fingers  pressed, 

To  a  memory  consecrate, 
Lieth  in  the  oaken  chest, 

Where,  unwilling  we  should  know, 

Grandma  put  it  years  ago. 


JN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  21 


THE  DREAM-SHIP. 


When  all  the  world  is  fast  asleep, 
Along  the  midnight  skies — 

As  though  it  were  a  wandering  cloud- 
The  ghostly  Dream-Ship  flies. 


An  angel  stands  at  the  Dream-Ship's  helm, 

An  angel  stands  at  the  prow, 
And  an  angel  stands  at  the  Dream-Ship's  side 

With  a  rue-wreath  on  her  brow. 


The  other  angels,  silver-crowned, 

Pilot    and   helmsman    are, 
But  the  angel  with  the  wreath  of  rue 

Tosseth  the  dreams  afar. 


The  dreams  they  fall  on  rich  and  poor, 
They  fall  on  young  and  old; 

And  some  are  dreams  of  poverty 
And  some  are  dreams  of  gold. 


22  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 

And  some  are  dreams  that  thrill  with  joy, 

And  some  that  melt  to  tears; 
Some  are  dreams  of  the  dawn  of  love, 

And   some   of  the   old,   dead  years. 


On  rich  and  poor  alike  they  fall, 

Alike  on  young  and  old, 
Bringing  to  slumbering  earth  their  joys 

And  sorrows  manifold. 


The  friendless  youth  in  them  shall  do 

The  deeds  of  mighty  men, 
And  drooping  age  shall  feel  the  grace 

Of  buoyant  youth  again. 


The  king  shall  be  a  beggarman, 

The   pauper  be   a  king, 
In   that   revenge   of   recompense 

The  Dream-Ship   dreams  do  bring. 


So  ever  downward  float  the  dreams 
That  are  for  all  and  me, 

And  there   is  never  mortal  man 
Can  solve  that  mystery. 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  23 

But  ever  onward  in  its  course 

Along  the  haunted  skies — 
As  though  it  were  a  cloud  astray — 

The  ghostly  Dream-Ship  flies. 


Two   angels   with   their   silver   crowns 

Pilot   and   helmsman   are 
And  an  angel  with  a  wreath  of  rue 

Tosseth  the   dreams   afar. 


24  IN  W1NK-A-WAY  LAND. 


THE  BOY. 


Down  through  the  snowdrifts  in  the  street 

With  blustering  joy  he  steers: 
His  rubber  boots  are  full  of  feet 

And  his  tippet  full  of  ears. 


IN  W1NK-A-WA7  LAND.  25 


LADY  BUTTON-EYES. 


When  the  busy  day  is  done 
And  my  weary  little  one 
Rocketh  gently  to  and  fro; 
When  the  night  winds  softly  blow 
And  the  crickets  in  the  glen 
Chirp    and    chirp   and    chirp    again: 
When   upon   the   haunted   green 
Fairies    dance    around    their    queen- 
Then  from  yonder  misty  skies 
Cometh  Lady  Button-Eyes. 


Through  the  murk  and  mist  and  ffloam 
To   our   quiet,   cozy   home, 
Where  to  singing,  sweet  and  low, 
Rocks  a  cradle  to  and  fro ; 
Where  the  clock's  dull  monotone 
Telleth  of  the   day  that's  done; 
Where  the  moonbeams  hover  o'er 
Playthings  sleeping  on  the  floor — 
Where  my  weary  wee  one  lies 
Cometh  Lady  Button-Eyes. 


26  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 

Cometh  like  a  fleeting  ghost 
From  some  distant  eerie  coast; 
Never  footfall   can   you  hear 
As  that  spirit  fareth  near — 
Never  whisper,  never  word 
From  that  shadow-queen  is  heard. 
In  ethereal  raiment  dight, 
From  the  realm  of  fay  and  sprite 
In  the  depth  of  yonder  skies 
Cometh  Lady  Button-Eyes. 


Layeth  she  her  hands  upon 

My  dear  weary  little  one, 

And  those  white  hands,  overspread 

Like  a  veil  the  curly  head, 

Seem  to  fondle  and  caress 

Every  little  silken  tress; 

Then  she  smooths  the  eyelids  down 

Over  those  two  eyes  of  brown — 

In  such  soothing,  tender  wise 

Cometh  Lady  Button-Eyes. 


Dearest,   feel  upon  your  brow 
That  caressing  magic  now; 
For  the  crickets  in  the   glen 
Chirp  and  chirp  and  chirp  again, 
While  upon  the  haunted   green 
Fairies  dance  around  their  queen, 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  27 

And  moonbeams  hover  o'er 
Playthings  sleeping  on  the  floor — 
Hush,  my  sweet!  from  yonder  skies 
Cometh  Lady  Button-Eyes. 


28  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


TEENY-WEENY. 


Every  evening,  after  tea, 
Teeny- Weeny  comes  to  me, 
And,   astride  my  willing  knee, 

Plies  his  lash  and  rides  away ; 
Though  that  palfrey,  all  too  spare, 
Finds   his   burden   hard   to   bear, 
Teeny-Weeny  doesn't  care — 

He  commands  and  I  obey! 


First  it's  trot;  and  gallop  then — 
Now  it's  back  to  trot  again; 
Teeny-Weeny  likes  it  when 

He  is  riding  fierce  and  fast! 
Then  his  dark  eyes  brighter  grow 
And  his  cheeks  are  all  aglow — 
' '  More  ! "  he  cries,  and  never  * i  Whoa  ! '  '- 

Till  the  horse  breaks  down  at  last. 


Oh,  the  strange  and  lovely  sights 
Teeny-Weeny  sees  of  nights, 
As  he  makes  those  famous  flights 
On  that  wondrous  horse  of  his! 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  29 

Oftentime,  before  he  knows, 
Weary-like  his   eyelids   close 
And,    still   smiling,    off   he    goes 
Where  the  land  of  By-low,  is,. 


There  he  sees  the  folk  of  fay 
Hard  at  ring-a-rosie  play, 
And  he  hears  those  fairies  say: 

"Come,  let's  chase  him  to  and  fro!: 
But,  with  a   defiant  shout, 
Teeny  puts  that  host  to  rout — 
Of  this  tale  I  make  no  doubt — 

Every  night  he  tells  it  so! 


So  I  feel  a  tender  pride 

In  my  boy  who  dares  to  ride 

(That  fierce  horse  of  his  astride) 

Off  into  those  misty  lands; 
And  as  on  my  breast  he  lies, 
Dreaming  in  that  wondrous  wise, 
I  caress  his  folded  eyes — 

Pat  his  little  dimpled  hands. 


On  a  time  he  went  away, 
Just  a  little  while  to  stay, 
And   I'm  not   ashamed   to   say 
I  was  very   lonely   then; 


30  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 

Life   without   him   was   so   sad, 
You  can  fancy  I  was  glad 
And  made  merry  when  I  had 
Teeny-Weeny  back  again! 


So   of  evenings   after  tea, 
When  he  toddles  up  to  me 
And  goes  tugging  at  my  knee, 

You  should  hear  his  palfrey  neigh! 
You  should  see  him  prance  and  shy, 
When,  with  an  exulting  cry, 
Teeny-Weeny,  vaulting  high, 

Plies  his  lash  and  rides  away! 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  31 


PITTYPAT  AND  TIPPYTOE. 


All  day  long  they  come  and  go — 
Pittypat  and   Tippytoe: 
Footprints  up  and  down  the  hall, 
Finger-marks   along   the   wall, 

Tell-tale  streaks  upon  the  door — 
By  these  presents  you  shall  know 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe. 


How  they  riot  at  their  play! 

And,  a  dozen  times  a  day, 

In   they   troop   demanding   bread — 

Only  buttered  bread  will  do, 
And  that  butter  must  be  spread 

Inches  thick  with  sugar,  too! 
Never  yet  have  I  said:  "No, 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe!" 


Sometimes  there  are  griefs  to  soothe — 
Sometimes  ruffled  brows  to  smooth; 
For — I  much  regret  to  say— 

Tippytoe  and  Pittypat 
Sometimes  interrupt  their  play 

"With  an  internecine  spat; 


32  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 

Fie !  oh  fie !  to  quarrel  so, 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe ! 


Oh,    the    thousand    worrying    things 
Every  day  recurrent  brings! 
Hands  to  scrub  and  hair  to  brush, 

Search  for  playthings  gone  amiss, 
Many   a   murmuring   hush, 

Many  a   little  bump  to  kiss; 
Life's  indeed   a  fleeting  show, 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe ! 


And,   when   day   is   at   an   end, 
There  are  little  duds  to  mend; 
Little    frocks    are    strangely   torn, 

Little  shoes  great  holes  reveal, 
Little  hose,  but  one  day  worn, 

Rudely  yawn  at  toe  or  heel! 
Who  but  you  could  work  such  woe, 
Pittypat  and   Tippytoe! 

But  when  comes  this  thought  to  me; 
Some  there  are  that  childless  be, 
Stealing  to  their  little  beds, 

With  a  love  I  cannot  speak, 
Tenderly  I  stroke  their  heads, 

Fondly  kiss  each  velvet  cheek. 
God  help  those  who  do  not  know 
A  Pittypat  or  Tippytoe! 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  33 

On  the  floor,  along  the  hall, 
Rudely  traced  upon  the  wall, 
There  are  proofs  of  every  kind 

Of  the  havoc  they  have  wrought; 
And  upon  my  heart  you'd  find 

Just  such  trademarks,  if  you  sought, 
Oh,  how  glad  I  am    'tis  so, 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe! 


34  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


THE  HUMMING  TOP. 


The  top  it  hummeth  a  sweet,  sweet  song 

To  my  dear  little  boy  at  play — 
Merrily  singeth  all  day  long, 
As  it  spinneth  and  spinneth  away. 

And  my  dear  little  boy 

He  laugheth  with  joy 
When  he  heareth  the  tuneful  tone 

Of  that  busy  thing 

That  loveth  to  sing 
The  song  that  is  all  its  own. 

Hold  fast  the  string  and  wind  it  tight, 
That  the  song  may  be  loud  and  clear ; 
Now  hurl  the  top  with  all  your  might 
Upon  the  banquette  here; 

And  straight  from  the  string 

The  joyous  thing 
Boundeth  and  spinneth  along, 

And  it  whirrs  and  it  chirrs 

And  it  birrs  and  it  purrs 
Ever  its  pretty  song. 

Will  ever  my  dear  little  boy  grow  old 
As  some   have   grown   before? 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  35 

Will  ever  his  heart  feel  faint  and  cold, 
When  he  heareth  the  songs  of  yore? 

Will  ever  this  toy 

Of  my  dear  little  boy 
When  the  years  have  worn  away, 

Sing  sad  and  low 

Of  the  long  ago, 
As  it  singeth  to  me  to-day? 


36  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


THE  DINKEY-BIRD. 


In  an  ocean  way  out  yonder 

(As  all  sapient  people  know) 
Is  the  land  of  Wonder-Wander, 

Whither  children  love  to  go; 
It's  their  playing,  romping,  swinging, 

That  giveth  joy  to  me, 
While  the  Dinkey-Bird  goes  singing 

In  the  amf alula  tree! 


There  the  gumdrops  grow  like  cherries 

And   taffy's   thick   as   peas- 
Caramels  you  pick  like  berries 

When  and  where  and  how  you  please ; 
Big  red  sugar  plums  are  clinging 

To  the  cliffs  beside  that  sea 
Where   the  Dinkey-Bird   is   singing 

In  the  amf  alula  tree! 


So  when  the  children  shout  and  scamper 
And  make  merry  all  the  day, 

When  there's  naught  to  put  a  damper 
On  the  ardor  of  their  play; 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  37 

When  I  hear  their  laughter  ringing, 

Then  I'm  sure  as  sure  can  be 
That  the  Dinkey-Bird  is  singing 

In  the  amfalula  tree. 


For   the   Dinkey-Bird's   bravuras 

And  the  staccatos  are  so  sweet — 
His  roulades,  appoggiaturas 

And  robustos  so  complete, 
That  the  youth  of  every  nation — 

Be  they  near  or  far  away — 
Have  especial  delectation 

In  that  gladsome  roundelay. 


Their  eyes  grow  bright  and  brighter, 

Their  lungs  begin  to  crow, 
Their  hearts  get  light  and  lighter 

And  their  cheeks  are  all  aglow; 
For  an   echo   cometh  bringing 

The  news  to  all  and  me 
That  the  Dinkey-Bird  is  singing 

In  the  amfalula  tree! 


Yes,  I'm  sure  you'd  like  to  go  there 
To  see  your  feathered  friend — 

And  so  many  goodies  grow  there 
You  would  like  to  comprehend! 


38  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 

Speed,  little  dreams,  your  winging 
To  that  land  across  the  sea 

Where  the  Dinkey-Bird  is  singing 
In  the  amfalula  tree! 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  39 


FIDDLE-DEE-DEE. 


There  once  was  a  bird  that  lived  up  in  a  tree, 

And  all  he  could  whistle  was  "  Fiddle-dee-dee " — 

A  very  provoking,  unmusical  song 

For  one  to  be  whistling  the  summer  day  long ! 

Yet  always  contented  and  busy  was  he 

With  that  vocal  recurrence  of  "Fiddle-dee-dee." 


Hardby  lived  a  brave  little  soldier  of  four 
That  weird  iteration  repented  him  sore; 
"I  pri'  thee,  Dear-Mother-Mine !  fetch  me  my  gun, 
For,  by  our  St.  Didy !  the  deed  must  be  done 
That  shall  presently  rid  all  creation  and  me 
Of  that  omnious  bird  and  his  'Fiddle-dee-dee!'  " 


Then  out  came  Dear-Mother-Mine,  bringing  her 

son 

His  awfully  truculent  little  red  gun; 
The  stock  was  of  pine  and  the  barrel  of  tin, 
The  "bang"  it  came  out  where  the  bullet  went 

in — 

The  right  kind  of  weapon,  I  think  you'll  agree, 
For  slaying  all  fowl  that  go  "Fiddle-dee-dee!" 


40  7AT  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 

The  brave  little  soldier  quoth  never  a  word, 
But  he  up  and  he  drew  a  straight  bead  on  that 

bird; 

And,  while  that  vain  creature  provokingly  sang, 
Then  loud  laughed  the  youth— ''By  my  Bottle/' 

cried  he, 
"I've  put  a  quietus  on  'Fiddle-dee-dee'!" 


Out  came  then  Dear-Mother-Mine,  saying:  "My 

son, 
Right  well  have  you  wrought  with  your  little  red 

gun! 

Hereafter  no  evil  at  all  need  I  fear, 
With  such  a  brave  soldier  as  You-My-Love  here ! ' ' 
She  kissed  the  dear  boy.     (The  bird  in  the  tree 
Continued  to  whistle  his  "Fiddle-dee-dee!") 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  41 


THE  HAPPY  HOUSEHOLD. 


It's  when  the  birds  go  piping  and  the  daylight 

slowly  breaks, 
That,  clamoring  for  his  dinner,  our  precious  baby 

wakes ; 
Then  it's  sleep  no  more  for  baby,  and  it's  sleep  no 

more  for  me, 
For,  when  he  wants  his  dinner,  why,  it's  dinner 

it  must  be! 

And  of  that  lacteal  fluid  he  partakes  with  great 
ado, 

While  gran 'ma  laughs, 
And  gran 'pa  laughs, 
And  wife,  she  laughs, 
And  I — well,  Z  laugh,  too! 


You'd  think  to  see  us  carrying  on  about  that  little 

tad, 
That,  like  as  not,  that  baby  was  the  first  we  'd  ever 

had; 
But,  sakes  alive!  he  isn't,  yet  we  people  make  a 

fuss 

As  if  the  only  baby  in  the  world  had  come  to  us ! 
And,  morning,  noon  and  night-time,  whatever  he 

may  do, 


42  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 

Gran 'ma,  she  laughs, 
Gran 'pa,  he  laughs, 
Wife,  she  laughs, 
And  7,  of  course,  laugh,  too! 

But  once — a   likely  spell  ago — when  that  poor 

little  chick 
From  teething  or  from  some  such  ill  or  infancy 

fell  sick, 
You  wouldn't  know  us  people  as  the  same  that 

went  about 
A-feelin'  good  all  over,  just  to  hear  him  crow  and 

shout; 

And,  though  the  doctor  poohed  our  fears  and  said 
he'd  pull  him  through, 
Old  gran 'ma  cried, 
And  gran 'pa  cried, 
And  wife,  she  cried, 
And  I — yes,  /  cried,  too! 

It  makes  us  all  feel  good  to  have  a  baby  on  the 
place 

With  his  everlastin'  crowing  and  his  dimpling, 
dumpling  face; 

The  patter  of  his  pinky  feet  makes  music  every 
where, 

And  when  he  shakes  those  fists  of  his,  good-by  to 
every  care! 

No  matter  what  our  trouble  is,  when  he  begins  to 
coo, 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  43 

Old  gran 'ma  laughs, 
And  gran 'pa  laughs, 
Wife,  she  laughs, 
And  I — you  bet,  /  laugh,  too. 


44  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


GOOD-CHILDREN  STREET. 


There's    a    dear    little   home   in   Good-Children 

street — 

My  heart  turneth  fondly  to-day 
Where  tinkle  of  tongues  and  patter  of  feet 

Make  sweetest  of  music  at  play; 
Where  the  sunshine  of  love  illumes  each  face 
And  warms  every  heart  in  that  old  fashioned 
place. 


For  dear  little  children  go  romping  about 
With  dollies  and  tin-tops  and  drums, 

And,  my!  how  they  frolic  and  scamper  and  shout 
Till  bedtime  too  speedily  comes! 

Oh,  days  they  are  golden  and  days  they  are  fleet 

With  little  folk  living  in  Good-Children  street. 


See,  here  comes  an  army  with  guns  painted  red, 
And  swords,  caps  and  plumes  of  all  sorts; 

The  captain  rides  gayly  and  proudly  ahead 
On  a  stick-horse  that  prances  and  snorts! 

Oh,  legions  of  soldiers  you're  certain  to  meet — 

Nice     make-believe     soldiers — in     Good-Children 
street. 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  45 

And  yonder  Odette  wheels  her  dolly  about — 

Poor  dolly!  I'm  sure  she  is  ill, 
For  one  of  her  blue  china  eyes  has  dropped  out, 

And  her  voice  is  asthmatic 'ly  shrill. 
Then,  too,  I  observe,  she  is  minus  her  feet, 
Which  causes  much    sorrow    in    Good-Children 
street. 


"Pis  so  the  dear  children  go  romping  about 
With  dollies  and  banners  and  drums, 

And  I  venture  to  say  they  are  sadly  put  out 
When  an  end  to  their  jubilee  comes; 

Oh,  days  they  are  golden  and  days  they  are  fleet 

With  little  folk  living  in  Good-Children  street! 


But,  when  falleth  night  over  river  and  town, 
Those  little  folk  vanish  from  sight, 

And  an  angel  all  white  from  the  sky  cometh  down 
And  guardeth  the  babes  through  the  night. 

And  singeth  her  lullabies  tender  and  sweet 

To  the  dear  little  people  in  Good-Children  street. 


Though  elsewhere  the  world  be  o  'erburdened  with 
care, 

Though  poverty  fall  to  my  lot, 
Though  toil  and  vexation  be  always  my  share, 

What  care  I — they  trouble  me  not! 
This  thought  maketh  life  ever  joyous  and  sweet: 
There's  a  dear  little  home  in  Good-Children  street. 


46  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


THE  DRUM. 


I'm  a  beautiful  red,  red  drum, 

And  I  train  with  the  soldier  boys; 
As  up  the  street  we  come 

Wonderful  is  our  noise ! 
There's  Tom  and  Jim  and  Phil 

And  Dick  and  Nat  and  Fred, 
While  Widow  Cutler's  Bill 

And  I  march  on  ahead, 
With  a  r-r-rat-tat-tat 

And  a  tum-titty-um-tum-tum — 
Oh,  there's  bushels  of  fun  in  that 

For  boys  with  a  little  red  drum! 

The  Injuns  came  last  night 

While  the  soldiers  were  abed, 
And  they  gobbled  a  Chinese  kite 

And  off  to  the  woods  they  fled! 
The  woods  are  the  cherry  trees 

Down  in  the  orchard  lot, 
And  the  soldiers  are  marching  to  seize 

The  booty  the  Injuns  got. 
With  a  tum-titty-um-tum-tum. 

And  r-r-rat-tat-tat, 
When  soldiers  marching  come 

Injuns  had  better  scat ! 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  47 

Step  up  there,  little  Fred, 

And,  Charlie,  have  a  mind! 
Jim  is  as  far  ahead 

As  you  two  are  behind! 
Ready  with  gun  and  sword 

Your  valorous  work  to  do — 
Yonder  the  Injun  horde 

Lieth  in  wait  for  you. 
And  their  hearts  go  pittypat 

When  they  hear  the  soldiers  come. 
With  a  r-r-rat-tat-tat 

And  a  tum-titty-um-tum-tum ! 


Course  it 's  all  the  play ! 

The  skulking  Indian  crew 
That  hustled  the  kite  away 

Are  little  white  boys  like  you! 
But  "honest"  or  "just  in  fun/' 

It  is  all  the  same  to  me ; 
And,  when  the  battle  is  won, 

Home  once  again  march  we 
With  r-r-rat-tat-tat 

And  tum-titty-um-tum-tum ; 
And  there's  glory  enough  in  that 

For  the  boys  with  little  red  drum! 


48  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


THREE  VALENTINES. 


L—TO  MISTRESS  BARBARA. 

There  were  three  cavaliers,  all  handsome  and  true, 
On  Valentine's  day  came  a  maiden  to  woo, 
And  quoth  to  your  mother:  ''Good-morrow,  my 

dear. 
We  come  with  some  songs  for  your  daughter  to 

hear!" 


Your  mother  replied:  "I'll  be  pleased  to  convey 
To  my  daughter  what  things  you  may  sing  or  may 

say!" 

Then  the  first  cavalier  sung:  "My  pretty  red  rose, 
I  '11  love  you  and  court  you  some  day,  I  suppose ! ' ' 


And  the  next  cavalier  sung,  with  make-believe 

tears : 
"I've  loved  you !    I've  loved  you  these  many  long 

years ! ' ' 
But  the  third  cavalier   (with  the  brown  bushy 

head 
And  the  pretty  blue  jacket  and  necktie  of  red) 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  49 

He  drew  himself  up  with  a  resolute  air, 
And  he  warbled:  "0  maiden,  surpassingly  fair, 
I've  loved  you  long  years,  and  I  love  you  to-day, 
And,  if  you  will  let  me,  I'll  love  you  for  aye!" 


/  (the  third  cavalier)  sung  this  ditty  to  you, 
In  my  necktie  of  red  and  my  jacket  of  blue; 
I'm  sure  you'll  prefer  the  song  that  was  mine 
And  smile  your  approval  on  your  Valentine. 


50  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


II.— TO  A  BABY  BOY. 


Who  I  am  I  shall  not  say, 
But  I  send  you  this  bouquet 
With  this  query,  baby  mine: 
"Will  you  be  my  valentine?" 


See  these  roses  blushing  blue, 
Very  like  your  eyes  of  hue; 
While  these  violets  are  the  red 
Of  your  cheeks.     It  can  be  said 
Ne'er  before  was  babe  like  you, 
And  I  think  it's  quite  as  true 
No  one  e'er  before  to-day 
Sent  so  wondrous  a  bouquet 
As  these  posies  aforesaid — 
Roses  blue  and  violets  red! 


Sweet,  repay  me  sweets  for  sweets-— 
'Tis  your  lover  who  entreats! 
Smile  upon  me,  baby  mine — 
Be  my  little  valentine. 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  51 


III.— TO  MISTRESS  BESSIE. 


Go,  Cupid,  and  my  sweetheart  tell 

I  love  her  well! 

Yes,  though  she  tramples  on  my  heart 
And  rends  that  bleeding  thing  apart ; 
And  though  she  rolls  a  scornful  eye 
On  doting  me  when  I  go  by; 
And  though  she  scouts  at  everything 
As  tribute  unto  her  I  bring — 
Apple,  banana,  caramel — 
Haste,  Cupid,  to  my  love  and  tell, 
In  spite  of  all  I  love  her  well ! 

And  further  say  I  have  a  sled 
Cushioned  in  blue  and  painted  red! 
The  groceryman  has  promised  I 
Can  "hitch"  whenever  he  goes  by — 
Go  tell  her  that,  and,  furthermore, 
Apprise  my  sweetheart  that  a  score 
Of  other  little  girls  implore 
The  boon  of  riding  on  that  sled 
Painted  and  hitched  as  aforesaid ; 
And  tell  her,  Cupid,  only  she 
Shall  ride  upon  that  sled  with  me. 
Tell  her  this  all,  and  further  tell 
I  love  her  well! 


52  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


THE  DUEL. 


The  gingham  dog  and  the  calico  cat 

Side  by  side  on  the  table  sat; 

'Twas  half  past  twelve,  and,  what  do  you  think, 

Neither  of  them  had  slept  a  wink! 

And  the  old  Dutch  clock  and  Chinese  plate 
Seemed  to  know,  as  sure  as  fate, 
There  was  going  to  be  an  awful  spat. 
(I  wasn't  there — I  simply  state 
What  was  told  to  me  by  the  Chinese  plate.) 


The  gingham  dog  went  "  bow-wow-wow !" 
And  the  calico  cat  replied  "me-ow!" 
And  the  air  was  streaked  for  an  hour  or  so 
With  fragments  of  gingham  and  calico, 

While  the  old  Dutch  clock  in  the  chimney 

place 

Up  with  its  hands  before  its  face, 
For  it  always  dreaded  a  family  row! 

(Now  mind,  I'm  simply  telling  you 
What  the  old  Dutch  clock  declares  is  true.) 


The  Chinese  plate  looked  very  blue 
And  wailed:   "Oh,  dear,  what  shall  we  do! 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  53 

But  the  gingham  dog  and  the  calico  cat 
Wallowed  this  way  and  tumbled  that, 
And   utilized   every  tooth  and   claw 
In  the  awfulest  way  you  ever  saw — 
And,  oh !  how  the  gingham  and  calico  flew ! 
(Don't  think  that  I  exaggerate — 
I  got  my  news  from  the  Chinese  plate.) 

Next  morning  where  the  two  had  sat 
They  found  no  trace  of  the  dog  01   cat; 
And  some  folks  think  unto  this  day 
That  burglars  stole  that  pair  away; 

But  the  truth  about  that  cat  and  pup 
Is  that  they  ate  each  other  up — 
Now,  what  do  you  really  think  of  that? 

(The  old  Dutch  clock  it  told  me  so, 
And  that  is  how  I  came  to  know.) 


54  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


BOOH! 


On  afternoons,  when  baby  boy  has  had  a  splendid 

nap, 
And   sits,   like   any  monarch   on  his   throne,   in 

nurse's  lap, 
In  some  such  wise  my  handkerchief  I  hold  before 

my  face, 
And   cautiously  and   quietly  I   move   about  the 

place ; 
Then,  with  a  cry,  I  suddenly  expose  my  face  to 

view, 
And  you  should  hear  him  laugh  and  crow  when 

I  say  "Booh!" 

Sometimes  that  rascal  tries  to  make  believe  that 
he  is  scared, 

And,  really,  when  I  first  began,  he  stared  and 
stared  and  stared; 

And  then  his  under  lip  came  out  and  farther  out 
it  came, 

Till  mamma  and  the  nurse  agreed  it  was  a  "cruel 
shame ' ' — 

But  now  what  does  that  same  wee  toddling,  lisp 
ing  baby  do 

But  laugh  and  kick  its  little  heels  when  I  say 
"Booh." 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  55 

He  laughs  and  kicks  his  little  heels  in  rapturous 

glee,  and  then 

In  shrill,  despotic  treble  bids  me  "Do  it  all  aden ! " 
And  I — of  course  I  do  it;  for,  as  his  progenitor, 
It  is  such  pretty,  pleasant  play  as  this  that  I  am 

for! 
And  it  is,  oh,  such  fun !  and  I  am  sure  that  I  shall 

rue 
The  time  when  we  are  both  too  old  to  play  the 

game  of  "Booh!" 


56  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


CHILD  AND  MOTHER. 


0  Mother-My-Love,  if  you'll  give  me  your  hand 
And  go  where  I  ask  you  to  wander, 

1  will  lead  you  away  to  a  beautiful  land— 
The  Dreamland  that's  waiting  out  yonder. 

We  '11  walk  in  a  sweet-posie  garden  out  there 
Where  moonlight  and  starlight  are  streaming, 

And  the  flowers  and  the  birds  are  filling  the  air 
With  the  fragrance  and  music  of  dreaming. 


There'll  be  no  little,  tired-out  boy  to  undress, 

No  questions  or  cares  to  perplex  you; 
There'll  be  no  little  bruises  or  bumps  to  caress, 

Nor  patching  of  stocking  to  vex  you. 
For  I'll  rock  you  away  on  a  silver-dew  stream 

And  sing  you  asleep  when  you're  weary, 
And  no  one  shall  know  of  our  beautiful  dream 

But  you  and  your  own  little  dearie. 


And  when  I  am  tired  I'll  nestle  my  head 
In  the  bosom  that  soothed  me  so  often, 

And  the  wide-awake  stars  shall  sing  in  my  stead 
A  song  which  our  dreaming  shall  soften. 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  57 

So,  Mother-My-Love,  let  me  take  your  dear  hand 
And  away  through  the  starlight  we'll  wander — 

Away  to  the  mist,  to  the  beautiful  land — 
The  Dreamland  that's  waiting  out  yonder! 


68  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


FAIRY  AND  CHILD. 


Oh,  listen,  little  Dear-My-Soul, 

To  the  fair  voices  calling, 
For  the  moon  is  high  in  the  misty  sky 

And  the  honey  dew  is  falling; 
To  the  midnight  feast  in  the  clover  bloom 

The  bluebells  are  a-ringing, 
And  it's  ''Come  away  to  the  land  of  fay" 

That  the  katydid  is  singing. 


Oh,  slumber,  little  Dear-My-Soul, 

And  hand  in  hand  we'll  wander — 
Hand  in  hand  to  the  beautiful  land 

Of  Balow,  away  off  yonder; 
Or  we'll  sail  along  in  a  lily  leaf 

Into  the  white  moon's  halo — 
Over  a  stream  of  mist  and  dream 

Into  the  land  of  Balow. 


Or,  you  shall  have  two  beautiful  wings — 
Two   gossamer  wings  and  airy, 

And  all  the  while  shall  the  old  moon  smile 
And  think  you  a  little  fairy; 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  59 

And  you  shall  dance  in  the  velvet  sky 
And  the  silvery  stars  shall  twinkle 

And  dream  sweet  dreams  as  over  their  beams 
Your  footfall  softly  tinkle. 


60  IN.  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


OVER  THE  HILLS  AND  FAR  AWAY. 


Over  the  hills  and  far  away, 

A  little  boy  steals  from  his  morning  play, 

And  under  the  blossoming  apple-tree 

He  lies  and  he  dreams  of  things  to  be: 

Of  battles  fought  and  of  victories  won, 

Of  wrongs  o'erthrown  and  of  great  deeds  done, 

Of  the  valor  that  he  shall  prove  some  day, 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away — 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away! 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away — 

It's  oh  for  the  toil  the  livelong  day! 

But  it  mattereth  not  to  the  soul  aflame 

With  the  love  for  riches  and  power  and  fame! 

On,  0  man !  while  the  sun  is  high — 

On  to  the  certain  joys  that  lie 

Yonder  where  blazeth  the  noon  of  day, 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away, 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away! 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away, 
An  old  man  lingers  at  close  of  day; 
Now  that  his  journey  is  almost  done, 
His  battles  fought  and  his  victories  won, 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  61 

The  old-time  honesty  and  truth, 
The  truthfulness  and  the  friends  of  youth, 
Home  and  mother— where   are  they? 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away- 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away ! 


62  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


THE  HAWTHORNE  CHILDREN. 


The  Hawthorne  children — seven,  in  all — 

And  famous  friends  of  mine, 
And,  with  what  pleasure  I  recall 
How,  years  ago,  one  gloomy  fall, 

I  took  a  tedious  railway  line 
And  journeyed  by  slow  stages  down 
Unto  that  soporiferous  town 

(Albeit  one  worth  seeing), 

Where  Herman,  Hildegarde,  John,  Henry,  Fred, 
And  Beatrix  and  Gwendolen, 
And  she  that  was  the  baby  then — 
The  famous  seven,  as  aforesaid, 

Lived,  moved  and  had  their  being. 


The  Hawthorne  children  gave  me  such 

A  welcome  by  the  sea, 
That  the  eight  of  us  were  soon  in  touch, 
And,  though  their  mother  marveled  much, 

Happy  as  larks  were  we! 
Egad!  I  was  a  boy  again, 
With  Henry,  John  and  Gwendolen! 

And  oh !  the  funny  capers 
I  cut  with  Hildegarde  and  Fred! 


IN  W INK-A-WAY  LAND.  63 

And  oh!  the  pranks  we  children  played, 
And  oh,  the  deafening  noise  we  made — 
'Twould  shock  my  family  if  they  read 
About  it  in  the  papers. 


The  Hawthorne  children  were  all  smart ; 

The  girls,  as  I  recall, 
Had  comprehended  every  art 
Appealing  to  the  head  and  heart, 

The  boys  were  gifted,  all; 
'Twas  Hildegarde  who  showed  me  how 
To  hitch  a  horse  and  milk  a  cow, 

And  cook  the  best  of  suppers; 
With  Beatrix  upon  the  sands, 
I  sprinted  daily  and  was  beat; 
'Twas  Henry  trained  me  to  the  feat 
Of  walking  round  upon  my  hands, 

Instead  of  my  uppers. 


The  Hawthorne  children  liked  me  best 

Of  evenings,  after  tea, 
For  then,  by  general  request, 
I  spun  them  yarns  about  the  west — 

Yarns  all  involving  me! 
I  represented  how  I'd  slain 
The  bison  on  his  native  plain, 

And  divers  tales  of  wonder. 
I  told  of  how  I'd  fought  and  bled 


64  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 

In  Indian  scrimmages  galore, 
Till  Mrs.  Hawthorne  quoth,  "No  more" — 
And  packed  her  darlings  off  to  bed 
To  dream  of  blood  and  thunder! 

They  must  have  changed  a  deal  since  then; 

The  misses,  tall  and  fair, 
And  those  three  handsome,  lusty  men — 
Would  they  be  boys  and  girls  again, 

"Were  I  to  happen  there, 
Down  in  that  spot  beside  the  sea 
Where  we  made  such  tumultuous  glee 

That  dull  autumnal  weather? 
Ah  me!  the  years  go  swiftly  by! 
And  yet  how  fondly  I  recall 
The  week  when  we  were  children  all, 
Dear  Hawthorne  children,  you  and  I — 

Just  eight  of  us  together. 


WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  65 


NIGHTFALL  IN  DORDRECHT. 


(Slumber  Song.) 

The  mill  goes  toiling  slowly  around, 

With,  steady  and  solemn  creak, 
And   my   little   ones   hear   in   the   kindly   sound 

The  voices  of  the  old  mill  speak; 
While  round  and  round  those  big  white  wings 

Grimly  and  ghostlike  creep, 
My  little  one  hears  that  the  old  mill  sings; 

"Sleep,  little  tulip,  sleep!" 


The  sails  are  reefed  and  the  nets  are  drawn, 

And,  over  his  pot  of  beer, 
The  fisher,  against  the  morning's  dawn, 

Lustily  maketh  cheer; 
He  mocks  at  the  winds  that  caper  along 

From  the  far-off  clamorous  deep, 
But  we — we  love   their  lullaby  song 

Of  "Sleep,  little  tulip,  sleep." 


Shaggy  old  Fritz  in  slumber  sound, 

Groans  of  the  stony  mart — 
To-morrow  how  proudly  he'll  trot  you  around, 

Hitched  to  our  new  milk  cart! 


66  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 

And  you  shall  help  me  blanket  the  kine 

And  fold  the  gentle  sheep, 
And  set  the  herring  a-soak  in  brine — 

But  now,  "little  tulip,  sleep!" 


A  Dream-One  comes  to  button  the  eyes 

That  wearily  droop  and  blink, 
While  the  old  mill  buffets  the  frowning  skies 

And  scold  at  the  stars  that  wink; 
Over  your  face  the  misty  wings 

Of  that  beautiful  Dream-One  sweep, 
And,  rocking  your  cradle,  she  softly  sings: 

"Sleep,  little  tulip,  sleep. " 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  67 


INTRY-MINTRY. 


Willie  and  Bess,  Georgie  and  May — 
Once,  as  these  children  were  hard  at  play, 
An  old  man,  hoary  and  tottering,  came 
And  watched  them  playing  their  pretty  game. 
He  seemed  to  wonder  while  standing  there, 

What  the  meaning  thereof  could  be — 
Aha,  but  the  old  man  yearned  to  share 

Of  the  little  children's  innocent  glee. 
As  they  circled  around  with  laugh  and  shout 
And  told  this  rhyme  at  counting  out: 

'  '  Intry-mintry,  cutrey-corn, 

Apple  seed  and  apple  thorn; 

Wire,  brier,  limber,  lock, 

Twelve  geese  in  a  flock; 

Some  flew  east,  some  flew  west, 

Some  flew  over  the  cuckoo's  nest!" 


Willie  and  Bess,  Georgie  and  May — 
Ah,  the  mirth  of  that  summer  day ! 
'Twas  Father  Time  who  had  come  to  share 
The  innocent  joy  of  those  children  there; 

He  learned  betimes  the  game  they  played 
And  into  their  sport  went  he — 

How  could  the  children  have  been  afraid, 


68  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 

Since  little  they  wrecked  whom  he  might  be. 
They  laughed  to  hear  old  Father  Time 
Mumbling  that  curious  nonsense  rhyme 

Of  "  Intry-mintry,   cutrey-corn, 

Apple  seed  and  apple  thorn; 

Wire,  brier,   limber,  lock, 

Twelve  geese  in  a  flock; 

Some  flew  east,  some  flew  west, 

Some  flew  over  the  cuckoo's  nest!" 

Willie  and  Bess,  Georgie  and  May, 
And  joy  of  summer — where  are  they? 
The  grim  old  man  still  standeth  near 
Crooning  the  song  of  a  far-off  year ; 
And  into  the  winter  I  come  alone, 

Cheered  by  that  mournful  requiem, 
Soothed  by  the  dolorous  monotone 

That  shall  count  me  off  as  it  counted  them — 
The  solemn  voice  of  old  Father  Time 
Chanting  the  homely  nursery  rhyme 

He  learned  of  the  children  a  summer  morn 
When,  with  "apple  seed  and  apple  thorn/' 
Life  was  full  of  the  Culcet  cheer 
That  bringeth  the  grace  of  heaven  anear — 
The  sound  of  the  little  ones  hard  at  play — 
Willie  and  Bessie,  Georgie  and  May. 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  69 


TELLING  THE  BEES. 


Out  of  the  house  where  the  slumberer  lay 

Grandfather  came  one  day, 

And  under  the  pleasant  orchard  trees 

He  spake  this  wise  to  the  murmuring  bees: 

"The  clover  bloom  that  kissed  her  feet 
And  the  posie  bed  where  she  used  to  play 

Have  honey  store,  but  none  so  sweet, 

As  ere  our  little  one  went  away. 
0  bees,  sing  soft,  and  bees,  sing  low, 
For  she  is  gone  who  loved  you  so!" 

A  wonder  fell  on  the  listening  bees 
Under  those  pleasant  orchard  trees, 
And  in  their  toil  that  summer  day 
Ever  their  murmuring  seemed  to  say : 

"Child,  O  child,  the  grass  is  cool, 

And  the  posies  are  waking  to  hear  the  song 

Of  the  bird  that  swings  by  the  shaded  pool, 

Waiting  for  one  that  tarrieth  long!" 
'Twas  so  they  called  to  the  little  one  then, 
As  if  to  call  her  back  again. 

O  gentle  bees  I  have  come  to  say 
That  grandfather  fell  asleep  to-day, 


70  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 

And  we  know  by  the  smile  on  grandfather's  face 
He  has  found  his  dear  one's  hiding  place. 
So  bees,  sing  soft,  and  bees,  sing  low, 
As  over  the  honey  fields  you  sweep; 
To  the  trees  abloom  and  the  flowers  ablow 

Sing  of  grandfather  fast  asleep. 
And  ever  beneath  these  orchard  trees 
Find  cheer  and  shelter  gentle  bees.. 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  71 


HI-SPY. 


Strange  that  the  city  thoroughfare, 
Noisy  and  bustling  all  the  day, 

Should,  with  the  night,  renounce  its  care 
And  lend  itself  to  children's  play. 


Oh,  girls  are  girls  and  boys  are  boys, 
And  have  been  so  since  Adam's  birth, 

And  will  be  so  till  dolls  and  noise 
Are  called  by  Gabriel's  horn  from  earth, 


The  self -same  sport  which  crowns  the  day 
Of  many  a  simple  shepherd's  son, 

Beguiles  the  little  lads  at  play 
By  night  in  stately  Babylon. 


72  IN  W1NK-A-WAY  LAND. 


THE  NAUGHTY  DOLL. 


My  dolly  is  a  dreadful  care — 

Her  name  is  Miss  Amandy; 
I  dress  her  up  and  curl  her  hair 

And  feed  her  taffy  candy. 
Yet,  heedless  of  the  pleading  voice 

Of  her  devoted  mother, 
She  will  not  wed  her  mother's  choice, 

But  says  she'll  wed  another. 


I'd  have  her  wed  the  china  vase — 

There  is  no  Dresden  rarer; 
You  might  go  searching  every  place 

And  never  find  a  fairer; 
He  is  a  gentle,  pinkish  youth — 

Of  that  there's  no  denying — 
Yet  when  I  speak  to  him,  forsooth, 

Amandy  falls  to  crying! 


She  loves  the  drum — that's    very  plain — 
And  scorns  the  vase  so  clever, 

And  weeping  vows  she  will  remain 
A  spinster  doll  forever! 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  73 

The  protestations  of  the  drum 

I  am  convinced  are  hollow; 
When  once  distressing  times  should  come, 

How  soon  would  ruin  follow. 


Yet  all  in  vain  the  Dresden  boy 

From  yonder  mantel  woos  her — 
A  mania  for  that  vulgar  toy, 

The  noisy  drum,  imbues  her ! 
In  vain  I  wheel  her  to  and  fro 

And  reason  with  her  mildly; 
Her  waxen  tears  in  torrents  flow, 

Her  sawdust  heart  beats  wildly. 


I'm  sure  that  when  I'm  big  and  tall 

And  wear  long  trailing  dresses, 
I  shan't  encourage  beaux  at  all 

Till  mamma  acquiesces; 
Our  choice  will  be  a  suitor  then 

As  pretty  as  this  vase  is — 
Oh,  how  we  will  hate  the  noisy  men 

With  whiskers  on  their  faces! 


74  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


GANDERFEATHER'S  GIFT. 


I  was  just  a  little  thing 

When  a  fairy  came  and  kissed  me; 
Floating  in  upon  the  light 
Of  a  haunted  summer  night, 
Lo!  the  fairies  came  to  sing 
Pretty  slumber  songs  and  bring 

Certain  boons  that  else  had  missed  me* 
From  a  dream  I  turned  to  see 
iWhat  those  strangers  brought  for  me 

When  that  fairy  up  and  kissed  me — 

Here,  upon  this  cheek,  he  kissed  me. 


Simmerdew  was  there,  but  she 

Did  not  like  me  altogether; 
Daisybright  and  Turtledove, 
Pilfercurds  and  Honeylove, 
Thistleblow  and  Amberglee 
On  that  gleaming,  ghostly  sea 

Floated  from  the  misty  heather, 
And  around  my  trundle  bed 
Frisked  and  looked  and  whispering  said, 

Solemn-like    and   altogether : 

"You  shall  kiss  him,  Ganderf  eather ! " 


IN  WINK-A-WAT  LAND.  75 

Ganderfeather  kissed  me  then — 

Ganderfeather,  quaint  and  merry! 
No  attenuate  sprite  was  he, 
But  as  buxom  as  could  be; 
Kissed  me  twice  and  once  again, 
And  the  others  shouted  when 

On  my  cheek  uprose  a  berry 
Somewhat  like  a  mole,  mayhap, 
But  the  kiss-mark  of  that  chap 

Ganderfeather,  passing  merry — 

Humorsome  but  kindly,  very! 


I  was  just  a  tiny  thing 

When  the  prankish  Ganderfeather 
Brought  this  curious  gift  to  me 
With  his  fairy  kisses  three, 
Yet  with  honest  pride  I  sing 
That  same  gift  he  chose  to  bring 

Out  of  yonder  haunted  heather : 
Other  charms  and  friendships  fly — 
Constant  friends  this  mole  and  I 

Who  had  been  so  long  together! 

Thank  you,  little  Ganderfeather! 


76  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


THE  BROOK. 


I  looked  in  the  brook  and  saw  a  face — 

Heigh-ho,  but  a  child  was  I! 
There  were  rushes  and  willows  in  that  place, 

And  they  clutched  at  the  brook  as  the  brook 

ran  by; 

And  the  brook  it  ran  its  own  sweet  way, 
As  a  child  doth  run  in  heedless  play, 
And  as  it  ran  I  heard  it  say: 

"Hasten  with  me 

To  the  roistering  sea 
That  is  wroth  with  the  flame  of  the  morning  sky ! ' 

I  look  in  the  brook  and  see  a  face — 

Heigh-ho,  but  the  years  go  by! 
The  rushes  are  dead  in  the  old-time  place, 

And  the  willows  I  knew  when  a  child  was  I 
And  the  brook  it  seemeth  to  me  to  say, 
As  ever  it  stealeth  on  its  way — 
Solemnly  now,  and  not  in  play: 

"Oh,  come  with  me 

To  the  slumbrous  sea 
That  is  gray  with  the  peace  of  the  evening  sky!' 

Heigh-ho,  but  the  years  go  by — 
I  would  to  God  that  a  child  were  I! 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  77 


LITTLE  CROODLIN'   DOO. 


Ho,  pretty  bee,  did  you  see  my  croodlin  doo? 

Ho,  little  lamb,  is  she  jinking  on  the  lea? 

Ho,  bonnie  fairy,  bring  my  dearie  back  to  me — 
Got  a  lump  o'  sugar  an'  a  posie  for  you — 
Only  bring  back  my  wee,  croodlin  doo ! 


Why,  here  you  are,  my  little  croodlin  doo ! 

Looked  in  er  cradle,  but  didn't  find  you  there — 
Looked  f'r  my  wee,  wee  croodlin  doo   ever'- 

where ; 

Ben  kind  lonesome  all  er  day  withouten  you— 
Where  you  ben,  my  little  wee,  wee  croodlin  doo? 


Now  we  go  balow,  my  little  croodlin  doo; 

Now  we  go  rockaby  ever  so  far — 

Rockaby,  rockaby  up  to  the  star 
That's  winkin'  and  blinkin'  an'  singin'  to  you 
As  you  go  to  balow,  my  wee,  wee  croodlin  doo ! 


78  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


THE  BOW-LEG  BOY. 


Who  should  come  up  the  road  one  day 
But  the  doctor  man  in  his  two-wheel  shay; 
And  he  whoaed  his  horse  and  he  cried,  "Ahoy! 
Such  a  cute  little  boy! 
Such  a  funny  little  boy! 
Such  a  dear  little  bow-leg  boy!" 


He  took  out  his  box  and  he  opened  it  wide, 
And  there  was  the  bow-leg  boy  inside! 
And  when  they  saw  that  cunning  little  mite, 
They  cried  in  a  chorus  expressive  of  delight: 
"What  a  cute  little  boy! 
What  a  funny  little  boy! 

What  a  dear  little  bow-leg  boy!" 


Observing  a  strict  geometrical  law, 
They  cut  out  his  panties  with  a  circular  saw; 
Which  gave  such  a  stress  to  his  oval  stride 
That  the  people  he  met  invariably  cried: 
"What  a  cute  little  boy! 
What  a  funny  little  boy! 

What  a  dear  little  bow-leg  boy!" 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  79 

They  gave  him  a  wheel  and  away  he  went 
Speeding  along  to  his  heart's  content; 
And  he  sits  so  straight  and  he  pedals  so  strong 
That  the  folks  all  say  as  he  bowls  along: 
1  'What  a  cute  little  boy! 
What  a  funny  little  boy! 

What  a  dear  little  bow-leg  boy!" 


With  his  eyes  aflame  and  his  cheeks  aglow, 
He  laughs  "Aha"  and  he  laughs  "Oho"; 
And  the  world  is  filled  and  thrilled  with  the  joy 
Of  that  jolly  little  human,  the  bow-leg  boy — 
The  cute  little  boy ! 
The  funny  little  boy ! 

The  dear  little  bow-leg  boy! 


If  ever  the  doctor-man  comes  my  way 
With  his  wonderful  box  in  his  two-wheel  shay, 
I'll  ask  for  the  treasure  I'd  fain  possess — 
Now,  honest  Injun!  can't  you  guess? 
Why,  a  cute  little  boy! 
A  funny  little  boy! 

A  dear  little  bow-leg  boy! 


80  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


HYMN. 


From  the  German  of  Martin  Luther. 

0  heart  of  mine!  lift  up  thine  eyes 
And  see  who  in  yon  manger  lies ! 
Of  perfect  form,  of  face  divine — 
It  is  the  Christ-child,  heart  of  mine! 


O   dearest,  holiest  Christ-child,   spread 
Within  this  heart  of  mine  thy  bed; 
Then  shall  my  breast  forever  be 
A  chamber  consecrate  to  thee! 


Beat  high  to-day,  O  heart  of  mine, 
And  tell,  O  lips,  what  joys  are  thine; 
For  with  your  help  shall  I  prolong 
Old  Bethlehem's  sweetest  cradle-song. 


Glory  to  God,  whom  this  dear  Child 
Hath  by  His  coming  reconciled, 
And  whose  redeeming  love  again 
Brings  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men! 


IN  WINK'A-WAY  LAND.  81 


THE  STRAW  PARLOR. 


Way  up  at  the  top  of  a  big  stack  of  straw 
Was  the  eunningest  parlor  that  ever  you  saw! 
And  there  you  could  lie  when  weary  of  play 
And  gossip  or  laze  in  the  coziest  way ; 
No  matter  how  careworn  or  sorry  one's  mood 
No  worldly  distraction  presumed  to  intrude. 
As  a  refuge  from  onerous  mundane  ado 
I  think  I  approve  of  straw  parlors;  don't  you? 


A  swallow  with  jewels  aflame  on  her  breast 
On  that  straw  parlor's  ceiling  had  builded  her 

nest; 

And  she  flew  in  and  out  all  the  happy  day  long, 
And  twittered  the  soothingest  lullaby  song, 
Now  some  might  suppose  that  that  beautiful  bird 
Performed  for  her  babies  the  music  they  heard; 
I  reckon  she  twittered  her  repertoire  through 
For  the  folk  in  the  little  straw  parlor;  don't  you? 


And  down  from  a  rafter  a  spider  had  hung 
Some  swings  upon  which  he  incessantly  swung, 
He  cut  up  such  didoes — such  antics  he  played 
Way  up  in  the  air,  and  was  never  afraid! 


82  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 

He  never  made  use  of  his  horrid  old  sting, 
But  was  just  upon  earth  for  the  fun  of  the  thing ! 
I  deeply  regret  to  observe  that  so  few 
Of  these  good-natured  insects  are  met  with;  don't 
you? 


And,  down  in  the  strawstack,  a  wee  little  mite 
Of  a  cricket  went  chirping  by  day  and  by  night ; 
And  further  down,  still,  a  cunning  blue  mouse 
In  a  snug  little  nook  of  that    strawstack    kept 

house ! 
When  the  cricket  went    " chirp,"    Miss  Mousie 

would  squeak 
"Come  in,"   and   a  blush   would    enkindle    her 

cheek ! 

She  thought — silly  girl !  'twas  a  beau  come  to  woo, 
But  I  guess  it  was  only  the  cricket;  don't  you? 


So  the  cricket,  the  mouse  and  the  motherly  bird 
Made  as  soothingsome  music  as  ever  you  heard; 
And,  meanwhile,  that  spider  by  means  of  his 

swings 

Achieved  most  astounding  gyrations  and  things! 
No  wonder  the  little  folks  liked  what  they  saw 
And  loved  what  they  heard  in    that    parlor  of 

straw ! 

With  the  mercury  up  to  102 
In  the  shade,  I  opine  they  just  sizzled ;  don't  you? 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  83 

But  once  there  invaded  that  Eden  of  straw 

The  evilest  feline  that  ever  you  saw! 

She  pounced  on  that  cricket  with  rare  prompti 
tude 

And  she  tucked  him  away  where  he'd  do  the  most 
good ; 

And  then,  reaching  down  to  the  nethermost  house, 

She  deftly  expiscated  little  Miss  Mouse! 

And,  as  for  the  swallow,  she  shrieked  and  with 
drew — 

I  rather  admire  her  discretion;  don't  you? 


Now  listen:  That  evening  a  cyclone  obtained 
And  the  mortgage  was  all  on  that  farm  that  re 
mained  ! 

Barn,  strawstack  and  spider — they  all  blew  away, 
And  nobody  knows  where  they're  at  to  this  day! 
And,  as  for  the  little  straw  parlor,  I  fear 
It  was  wafted  clean  off  this  sublunary  sphere! 
I  really  incline  to  a  hearty  "boo-hoo" 
When  I  think  of  this  tragical  ending;  don't  you? 


84  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


HUSH-A-BY,  SWEET  MY  OWN. 


Fair  is  the  castle  up  on  the  hill— 

Hush-a-by,  sweet  my  own! 

The  night  is  fair  and  the  waves  are  still, 

And  the  wind  is  singing  to  you  and  me 

In  this  lowly  home  beside  the  sea — 

Hush-a-by,  swept  my  own! 

On  yonder  hill  is  store  of  wealth— 
Hush-a-by,  sweet  my  own! 

And  revelers  drink  to  a  little  one 's  health ; 

But  you  and  I  bide  night  and  day 

For  the  other  love  that  has  sailed  away — 
Hush-a-by,  sweet  my  own! 

See  not,  dear  eyes,  the  forms  that  creep 

Ghostlike,  0,  my  own! 
Out  of  the  mists  of  the  murmuring  deep ; 
Oh,  see  them  not  and  make  no  cry 
'Till  the  angels  of  death  have  passed  us  by- 

Hush-a-by,  sweet  my  own! 

Ah,  little  they  reck  of  you  and  me — 

Hush-a-by,  sweet  my  own ! 
In  our  lonelv  home  beside  the  sea: 


IN  WINK-A-WAT  LAND.  85 

They  seek  the  castle  up  on  the  hill, 
And  there  they  will  do  their  ghostly  will — 
"Hush-a-by,  sweet  my  own*'; 


Here  by  the  sea  a  mother  croons 
Hush-a-by,  sweet  my  own! 
In  yonder  castle  a  mother  swoons 
While  the  angels  go  down  to  the  misty  deep, 
Bearing  a  little  one  fast  asleep — 

"Hush-a-by,  sweet  my  own"; 


86  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


COBBLER  AND  STORK. 

(Cobbler.) 

Stork,  I  am  justly  wroth, 

For  thou  hast  wronged  me  sore; 
The  ash  roof -tree  that  shelters  thee 

Shall  shelter  thee  no  more! 

(Stork.) 

Full  fifty  years  .1  Ve  dwelt 

Upon  this  honest  tree, 
And  long  ago   (as  people  know!) 

I  brought  thy  father  thee, 
What  hail  hath  chilled  thy  heart 

That  thou  shouldst  bid  me  go? 
Speak  out,  I  pray — then  I'll  away, 

Since  thou  commandest  so. 

(Cobbler.) 

Thou  tellest  of  the  time 

When  wheeling  from  the  west, 
This  hut  thou  sought 'st  and  one  thou  brought  'st 

Unto  a  mother's  breast; 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  87 

I  was  the  wretched  child 

Was  fetched  that  dismal  morn — 
'Twere  better  die  than  be  (as  I) 

To  life  of  misery  born! 
And  hadst  thou  borne  me  on 

Still  farther  up  the  town, 
A  king  I'd  be  of  high  degree, 

And  wear  a  golden  crown! 
For  yonder  lives  the  prince 

Was  brought  that  selfsame  day; 
How  happy  he,  while — look  at  me! 

I  toil  my  life  away! 
And  see  my  little  boy — 

To  what  estate  he's  born! 
Why,  when  I  die,  no  hoard  leave  I 

But  poverty  and  scorn, 
And  thou  hast  done  it  all — 

I  might  have  been  a  king 
And  ruled  in  state,  but  for  thy  hate, 

Thou  base,  perfidious  thing. 

(Stork.) 

Since,  cobbler,  thou  dost  speak 

Of  one  thou  lovest  well, 
Hear  of  that  king  what  grievous  thing 

This  very  morn  befell. 
Whilst  around  thy  homely  bench 

Thy  well-beloved  played, 
In  yonder  hall  beneath  a  pall 

A  little  one  was  laid ; 


88  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 

Thy  well-beloved's  face 

Was  rosy  with  delight, 
But  'neath  that  pall  in  yonder  hall 

The  little  face  is  white; 
Whilst  by  a  merry  voice 

Thy  soul  is  filled  with  cheer, 
Another  weeps  for  one  that  sleeps 

All  mute  and  cold  anear; 
One  father  hath  his  hope, 

And  one  is  childless  now; 
He  wears  a  crown  and  rules  a  town- 
Only  a  cobbler  thou! 
Wouldst  thou  exchange  thy  lot 

At  price  of  such  a  woe? 
I'll  nest  no  more  above  thy  door, 

But,  as  thou  bid'st  me,  go. 

(Cobbler.) 

Nay,  stork!  thou  shalt  remain — 

I  meant  not  what  I  said ; 
Good  neighbors  we  must  always  be, 

So  make  thy  home  o'erhead. 
I  would  not  change  my  bench 

For  any  monarch's  throne, 
Nor  sacrifice  at  any  price 

My  darling  and  my  own! 
Stork!  on  my  roof-tree  bide, 

That,   seeing  thee  anear, 
I'll  thankful  be  God  sent  by  thee 

Me  and  my  darling  here! 


WINK-A'WAJ  LAND.  89 


"  GUESS.5 


There  is  a  certain  Yankee  phrase 

I  always  have  revered, 
Yet,  somehow,  in  these  modern  days, 

It's   almost   disappeared; 
It  was  the  usage  years  ago, 

But  nowadays  it's  got 
To  be  regarded  coarse  and  low 

To  answer :  ' '  I  guess  not ! ' ' 


The  height  of  fashion  called  the  pink 

Affects  a  British  craze — 
Prefers  "I  fancy"  or  "I  think" 

To  that  time-honored  phrase; 
But  here's  a  Yankee,  if  you  please, 

That  brands  the  fashion  rot, 
And  to  all  heresies  like  these 

He  answers:  " I-guess-not ! " 


When  Chaucer,  Wycliff,  and  the  rest 
Express  their  meaning  thus, 

I  guess,  if  not  the  very  best, 
It's  good  enough  for  us! 


90  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 

Why!  shall  the  idioms  of  our  speech 
Be  banished  and  forgot 
For  this  vain  trash  which  moderns  teach? 
"Well,  no,  sir;  I  guess  not! 


There's  meaning  in  that  homely  phrase 

No  other  words  express — 
No  substitute  therefor  conveys 

Such  unobtrusive  stress. 
True  Anglo-Saxon  speech,  it  goes 

Directly  to  the  spot, 
And  he  who  hears  it  always  knows 

The  worth  of  ' '  I-guess-not ! ' ' 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  91 


UHLAND'S  "WHITE  STAG." 


Into  the  woods  three  huntsmen  came, 
Seeking  the  white  stag  for  their  game. 

They  laid  them  under  a  green  fir  tree 

And  slept,  and  dreamed  things  strange  to  see. 

(First  Huntsman.) 

I  dreamt  I  was  beating  the  leafy  brush 
When  out  popped  the  noble  stag,  hush,  hush! 

(Second  Huntsman.) 

As  ahead  of  the  clamorous  pack  he  sprang, 
I  pelted  him  hard  in  the  hide — piff,  bang! 

(Third  Huntsman.) 

And  as  that  stag  lay  dead  I  blew 
On  my  horn  a  lusty  tir-ril-la-loo ! 

So  spake  the  three  as  there  they  lay, 
When  lo,  the  white  stag  sped  that  way! 

Frisked  his  heels  at  those  huntsmen  three, 
Then  leagues  o'er  hill  and  dale  was  he — 
Hush,  hush!  Piff,  bang!  Tir-ril-la-loo! 


92  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


A     PITEOUS     PLAINT     WHEREIN     IS 
SHOWN   THE   EVER-LAMENT 
ABLE    COQUETRY    OF 
MARTHA  CLOW. 

I  cannot  eat  my  porridge, 

I  weary  of  my  play; 
No  longer  can  I  sleep  at  night, 

No  longer  romp  by  day! 
Though  forty  pounds  was  once  my  weight 

I  'm  shy  of  thirty  now ; 
I  pine,  I  wither  and  I  fade 

Through  love  of  Martha  Clow. 

As  she  rolled  by  this  morning 

I  heard  her  nurse  girl  say: 
''She  weighs  just  twenty-seven  pounds 

And  she's  one  year  old  to-day." 
I  threw  a  kiss  that  nestled 

In  the  curls  upon  her  brow, 
But  she  never  turned  to  thank  me — 

That  bouncing  Martha  Clow! 

She  ought  to  know  I  love  her, 

For  I've  told  her  that  I  do; 
And  I've  brought  her  nuts  and  apples, 

And  sometimes  candy,  too ! 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  93 

I'd  drag  her  in  my  little  cart 

If  her  mother  would  allow 
That  delicate  attention 

To  her  daughter,  Martha  Clow. 


0  Martha!  pretty  Martha!  ' 

Will  you  always  be  so  cold? 
Will  you  always  be  as  cruel 

As  you  are  at  one-year-old? 
Must  your  two-year-old  admirer 

Pine  as  hopelessly  as  now 
For  a  fond  reciprocation 

Of  his  love  for  Martha  Clow? 


You  smile  on  Bernard  Rogers 

And  on  little  Harry  Knott; 
You  play  with  them  at  peek-a-boo 

All  in  the  Waller  Lot! 
Wildly  I  gnash  my  new-cut  teeth 

And  beat  my  throbbing  brow, 
When  I  behold  the  coquetry 

Of  heartless  Martha  Clow! 


I  cannot  eat  my  porridge,, 
Nor  for  my  play  care  I; 

Upon  the  floor  and  porch  and  lawn 
My  toys  neglected  lie; 


94  IN  WINK- A- WA  Y  LAND. 

But  on  the  air  of  Halsted  street 
I  breathe  this  solemn  vow: 

"Though  she  be  false,  I  will  be  true 
To  pretty  Martha  Clow!" 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  95 


SONG— MY  HEART  IS  THE  SHORE. 


My  heart  is  the  shore  when  the  tide  is  gone 
And  the  argent  feet  of  a  lovely  dawn 
Walk  far  and  near  o'er  the  rocks  and  sand, 
With  a  loveless  space   'twixt  the  sea  and  land, 
For  thou  art  gone! 


My  heart  is  the  shore  when  the  tide  has  come 
With  yearning  lips  and  song,  and  some 
Have  waked  a  song  in  the  shore's  lush  grass 
Where  the  wild  rose  blooms  and  the  curlews  pass — 
For  thou  art  come. 


96  IN  W1NK-A-WAY  LAND. 


OUR  TWO  OPINIONS. 


Us  two  wuz  boys  when  we  fell  out— 

Nigh  to  the  age  uv  my  youngest  now; 
Don'  I  rec'lect  what  'twas  about, 

Some  small  difference,  I'll  allow. 
Lived  next  neighbors  twenty  years, 

A-hatin'  each  other,  me   'nd  Jim — 
He  havin'  his  opinyun  uv  me 

'Nd  I  havin'  my  opinyun  uv  him. 


Grew  up  together  'nd  wouldn't  speak, 

Courted  sisters  'nd  married  'em,  too; 
'Tended  same  meetin'  house  once  a  week, 

A-hatin'   each  other,  through    'nd  through! 
But  when  Abe  Linkern  asked  the  west 

F'r  soldiers,  we  answered — me  'nd  Jim — 
He  havin'  his  opinyun  uv  me 

'Nd  7  havin'  my  opinyun  uv  him! 


But  down  in  Tennessee  one  night 
Ther'  wuz  sound  uv  firin'  fur  away, 

'Nd  the  sergeant  allowed  ther'd  be  a  fight 
With  the  Johnnie  Rebs  some  time  nex'  day; 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  97 

'Nd  I  wuz  thinkin'  uv  Lizzie   'nd  home 
Jim  stood  afore  me,  long   'nd  slim — 

He  havin'  his  opmyun  uv  me 

'Nd  I  havin'  my  opinyun  uv  him! 


Seemed  like  we  knew  there  wuz  goin'  to  be 

Serious  trouble  f ' r  me  'nd  him — 
Us  two  shuck  hands,  did  Jim   'nd  me, 

But  never  a  word  from  me  or  Jim! 
He  went  his  way  'nd  I  went  mine, 

Nd'  into  the  battle's  roar  went  we— 
I  havin'  my  opinyun  uv  Jim 

'Nd  he  havin'  his  opinyun  uv  me  I 


Jim  never  came  back  from  the  war  again. 

But  I  hain't  forgot  that  last,  last  night 
When,  waitin'  f'r  orders,  us  two  men 

Made  up  'nd  shuck  hands,  afore  the  fight; 
'Nd,  after  it  all,  it's  soothin  to  know 

That  here  I  be  'nd  younder's  Jim — 
He  havin'  his  opinyun  uv  me 

'Nd  7  havin'  my  opinyun  uv  him! 


98  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


THE  LITTLE  PEACH. 


A  little  peach  in  the  orchard  grew, — 
A  little  peach  of  emerald  hue ; 
Warmed  by  the  sun  and  wet  by  the  dew, 
It  grew. 

One  day,  in  passing  that  orchard  through, 
That  little  peach  dawned  on  the  view 
Of  Johnny  Jones  and  his  sister  Sue — 
Them  two. 

Up  at  that  peach  a  club  they  threw — 
Down  from  the  stem  on  which  it  grew 
Fell  that  peach  of  emerald  hue. 
Mon  Dieu! 

John  took  a  bite  and  Sue  a  chew, 
And  then  the  trouble  began  to  brew, — 
Trouble  the  doctor  couldn't  subdue. 
Too  true! 

Under  the  turf  where  the  daisies  grew 
They  planted  John  and  his  sister  Sue, 
And  their  little  souls  to  the  angels  flew, — 
Boo-hoo ! 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  99 

And  what  of  that  peach  of  emerald  hue, 
Warmed  by  the  sun  and  wet  by  the  dew  ? 
Ah,  well,  its  mission  on  earth  is  through. 
Adieu ! 

"The  Little  Peach"  was  set  to  music  and,  strik 
ing  popular  fancy,  was  a  remarkable  success. 
From  London,  in  February,  1890,  Mr.  Field  wrote 
as  follows: 

"That  awful  song,  'The  Little  Peach,'  has 
been  put  upon  the  market  here  by  rival  music  pub 
lishers.  A  local  poet  has  injected  into  the  soulful 
poem  these  stanzas : 

'Said  Johnny  Jones  his  sister  unto: 
"I  fear  it  is  more  than  I  can  do, 
But  get  that  "peach  I  must  for  you — 
For   you." 


'He  thought  the  way  to  climb  he  knew — 
His  foot  got  caught,  off  came  his  shoe, 
His  jacket  torn,  his  trousers,  too, 
Eight  through.7  " 


100  IN  WtltK-A-WAy  LAND. 


THE  BROOK  AND  THE  BOY. 


Out  of  the  village  there  cometh  a  boy — 

Dark  and  tall  and  lithe  is  he; 

And  he  washeth  his  face  and  rubbeth  his  hands 
And  he  talketh  a  space,  as  there  he  stands, 

With  the  brook  that  babbleth  free. 


"Now  tell  me,  waters,  so  cold  and  clear, 
And  whence  hast  thou  come  so  far?" 

"From  the  farther  side  of  the  hill  we  flow, 
Where  the  snow  is  bride  of  the  last  year's  snow — 
Children  thereof  we  are!" 


"And  whither  dost  thou  pursue  thy  way, 
O  waters  clear  and  cold  and  fair?" 

"Where  the  rose  is  gay  in  the  love  of  spring 

We  hurry  away  our  songs  to  sing 
To  the  lambkin  bleating  there." 

"01  should  stay  where  the  roses  bloom, 
Thou  waters  sweet  and  good  and  true!" 

"We  shall  journey  on  through  the  meadows  fair 
'Till  we  come  anon  to  the  vineyard  where 
Drippeth  the  vine  with  dew!" 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  H>r 

"Long  should  I  linger  to  press  those  vines, 

O  honest  waters  sweet  and  cool ! ' ' 

"Nay  speed  we  fast  through  the  balmy  shade 
'Till  we  come  at  last  where  a  mulberry  maid 

Swings  by  a  crystal  pool." 


Up  from  the  waters  that  babble  on 
All  silently  fareth  the  dark,  lithe  blade; 
And  he  giveth  nor  rose  nor  vine  a  look, 
But  panting  he  goes  to  beat  the  brook, 
Wooing  that  mulberry  maid. 


102  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


TO  A  LITTLE  BROOK. 


You're  not  so  big  as  you  were  then, 

O  little  brook! 

I  mean  those  hazy  summers  when 
We  boys  roamed,  full  of  awe,  beside 
Your  noisy,  foaming,  tumbling  tide, 
And  wondered  if  it  could  be  true 
That  there  were  bigger  brooks  than  you, 

0  mighty  brook,  0  peerless  brook. 


All  up  and  down  this  reedy  place 

Where  lives  the  brook, 
We  angled  for  the  furtive  dace; 
The  redwing-blackbird  did  his  best 
To  make  us  think  he'd  built  his  nest 
Hard  by  the  stream,  when,  like  as  not, 
He'd  hung  it  in  a  secret  spot 

Far  from  the  brook,  the  tell-tale  brook! 


And  often,  when  the  noontime  heat 

Parboiled  the  brook, 

We'd  draw  our  boots  and  swing  our  feet 
Upon  the  waves  that,  in  their  play, 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  103 

Would  tag  us  last  and  scoot  away; 
And  mother  never  seemed  to  know 
What  burnt  our  legs  and  chapped  them  so — 
But  father  guessed  it  was  the  brook! 


And  Fido, — how  he  loved  to  swim 

The  cooling  brook, 

Whenever  we'd  throw  sticks  for  him; 
And  how  we  boys  did  wish  that  we 
Could  only  swim  as  good  as  he — 
Why,  Daniel  Webster  never  was 
Recipient  of  such  applause 

As  Fido,  battling  with  the  brook! 


But  once — 0  most  unhappy  day 

For  you,  my  brook — 
Came  Cousin  Sam  along  that  way; 
And,  having  lived  a  spell  out  west, 
Where  creeks  aren't  counted  much  at  best, 
He  neither  waded,  swam,  nor  leapt, 
But,   with  superb   indifference,   stepped 

Across  that  brook — our  mighty  brook! 


Why  do  you  scamper  on  your  way, 

You  little  brook, 
When  I  come  back  to  you  to-day? 
Is  it  because  you  flee  the  grass 


104  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 

That  lunges  at  you  as  you  pass, 
As  if,  in  playful  mood,  it  would 
Tickle  the  truant  if  it  could, 

You  chuckling  brook — you  saucy  brook! 


Or  is  it  you  no  longer  know — 

You  fickle  brook — 
The  honest  friend  of  long  ago? 
The  years  that  kept  us  twain  apart 
Have  changed  my  face  but  not  my  heart — 
Many  and  sore  those  years,  and  yet 
I  fancied  you  could  not  forget 

That  happy  time,  my  playmate  brook! 


Oh,  sing  again  in  artless  glee, 

My  little  brook, 

The  song  you  used  to  sing  for  me — 
The  song  that's  lingered  in  my  ears 
So  soothingly  these  many  years; 
My  grief  shall  be  forgotten  when 
I  hear  your  tranquil  voice  again 

And  that  sweet  song,  dear  little  brook! 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  105 


THE  WANDERER. 


Upon  a  mountain  height,  far  from  the  sea, 

I  found  a  shell, 

And  to  my  listening  ear  the  lonely  thing 
Ever  a  song  of  ocean  seemed  to  sing, 

Ever  a  song  of  ocean  seemed  to  tell. 

How  came  the  shell  upon  that  mountain  height? 

Ah,  who  can  say. 

Whether  dropped  there  by  some  too  careless  hand, 
Or  whether  cast  there  when  ocean  swept  the  land, 

Ere  the  Eternal  had  ordained  the  day? 

Strange,  was  it  not?    Far  from  its  native  deep, 

One  song  it  sang, — 

Song  of  the  awful  mysteries  of  the  tide, 
Song  of  the  misty  sea,  profound  and  wide. — • 

Ever  with  echoes  of  the  ocean  rang. 

And  as  the  shell  upon  the  mountain  height 

Sings  of  the  sea. 

So  do  I  ever,  leagues  and  leagues  away, — 
So  do  I  ever,  wandering  where  I  may, — 

Sing,  0  my  home!  sing,  0  my  home!  of  thee. 


106  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


SOLDIER,  MAIDEN  AND  FLOWER. 

(A  piece  for  little  Miss  Trotty  to  speak  at  school  on 
Decoration  day.) 

" Sweetheart,  take  this,"  a  soldier  said, 

"And  bid  me  brave  good-by; 
It  may  befall  we  ne'er  shall  wed, 

But  love  can  never  die! 


"Be  steadfast  in  thy  troth  to  me, 
And  then  whate'er  my  lot, 

My  soul,  to  God,  my  heart  to  thee — 
Sweetheart,  forget  me  not ! ' ' 


The  maiden  took  the  tiny  flow'r 
And  fed  it  with  her  tears; 

Lo,  he  who  left  her  in  that  hour 
Came  not  in  after  years. 


Upon  the  field  a  demon  rode 
'Mid  shower  of  flame  and  shot, 

While  in  the  maiden's  heart  abode 
The  flow'r  forget-me-not. 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  107 

And  when  he  came  not  with  the  rest 

From  out  those  years  of  blood, 
Closely  unto  her  widowed  breast 

She  pressed  the  withered  bud. 


Oh,  there  is  love,  and  there  is  pain — 
And  there  is  peace,  God  wot; 

And  these  dear  three  do  live  again 
In  sweet  forget-me-not. 


'Tis  to  his  unmarked  grave  to-day 
That  I  should  love  to  go — 

Whether  he  wore  the  blue  or  gray, 
What  need  that  we  should  know? 


"He  loved  a  woman, "  let  us  say, 
And,  that  hallowed  spot, 

To  woman's  love  that  lives  for  aye 
We'll  strew  forget-me-not. 


108  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


THE  PEACE  CHRISTMAS  TIME. 


Earnest,  how  hard  it  is  to  say 

That  all  is  for  the  best, 
Since,  sometimes,  in  a  grievous  way 

God's  will  is  manifest. 


See  with  what  hearty,  noisy  glee 

Our  little  ones  to-night 
Dance  round  and  round  our  Christmas  tree 

With  pretty  toys  bedight. 


Dearest,  one  voice  they  may  not  hear, 
One  face  they  may  not  see — 

Ah,  what  of  all  this  Christmas  cheer 
Cometh  to  you  and  me? 


Cometh  before  our  misty  eyes 

That  other  little  face, 
And  we  clasp,  in  tender,   reverent  wise, 

That  love  in  the  old  embrace. 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  109 

Dearest,  the  Christ-child  walks  to-night, 

Bringing  his  peace  to  men, 
And  He  bringeth  to  you  and  to  me  the  light 

Of  the  old,  old  years  again. 


Bringeth  the  peace  of  long  ago 
"When  a  wee  one  clasped  your  knee 

And  lisped  of  the  morrow — dear  one,  you  know — 
And  here  come  back  is  he! 


Dearest,  'tis  sometimes  hard  to  say 
That  all  is  for  the  best, 

For,  often,  in  a  grievous  way, 
God's  will  is  manifest. 


But  in  the  grace  of  this  holy  night 
That  bringeth  back  our  child, 

Let  us  see  that  the  ways  of  God  are  right, 
And  so  be  reconciled. 


110  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


THE  DEAD  BABE. 


Last  night,  as  my  dear  babe  lay  dead, 
In  agony  I  knelt  and  said: 

"0  God!  what  have  I  done, 
Or  in  what  wise  offended  Thee, 
That  Thou  should 'st  take  away  from  me 

My  little  son? 

"Upon  the  thousand  useless  lives — 
Upon  the  guilt  that  vaunting  thrives. 

Thy  wrath  were  better  spent! 
Why  should 'st  Thou  take  my  little  son? 
Why  should 'st   Thou  vent   Thy  wrath  upon 

This  innocent?" 


Last  night,  as  my  dear  babe  lay  dead, 
Before  mine  eyes  the  vision  spread 

Of  things  that  might  have  been; 
Licentious  riot,  cruel  strife, 
Forgotten  prayers,  a  wasted  life 

Dark  red  with  sin! 


Then,  with  soft  music  in  the  air, 
I  saw  another  vision  there: 


IN  WINE-A-WAY  LAND.  Ill 

A  Shepherd,  in  whose  keep 
A  little  lamb — my  little  child — 
Of  worldly  wisdom  undefiled, 

Lay  fast  asleep! 


Last  night,  as  my  dear  babe  lay  dead, 
In  those  two  messages  I  read 

A  wisdom  manifest; 
And,  though  my  arms  be  childless  now, 
I  am  content — to  Him  I  bow 

Who  knoweth  best. 


112  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


RECALL  OF  BOYHOOD  JOYS. 


Brother  of  mine,  have  you  forgot 
Those  pleasant  nooning  times  of  old; 

How  in  a  quiet,  shady  spot 

We  sat  and  heard  quaint  stories  told? 

How  sweet  it  was  when  tired  of  play 
Or  vexed  with  discipline  at  school, 

To  while  that  nooning  hour  away 
With  romance  in  the  shade  and  cool! 

Brother  of  mine,  our  noon  is  high — 
Come,  let  us  rest  a  little  space, 

And  let  us  twain  revivify 

Our  ardor  with  that  boyhood  grace! 

These  little  tales  it  is  to  tell- 
Some  folks  may  wonder  why  they're  told ; 

Yet  shall  they  serve  their  purpose  well 
If  they  recall  the  days  of  old. 

If  they  recall  our  boyhood  joys 

And  those  far-distant  scenes  retrace; 

If  they  bring  to  us  two  boys 

A  vision  of  the  dear  old  place — 


IN  WINK-A-W AY  LAND. 

The  homestead,  and  the  pickerel  pond, 
The  maple  trees,  the  pasture  lot, 

The   Pelham   hills   away   beyond — 
Brother  of  mine,  have  you  forgot? 


114  IN  WINK-A-  WA  Y  LAND. 


THE  SONG  OF  LUDDY-DUD. 


A  sunbeam  comes  a-creeping 

Into  my  dear  one's  nest 
And  sings  to  our  babe  a-sleeping 
The  song  that  I  love  the  best. 

'Tis  little  Luddy-Dud  in  the  morning, 
.'Tis  little  Luddy-Dud  at  night; 
And  all  day  long 
'Tis  the  same  sweet  song 
Of  that  waddling,  toddling,  coddling  little 
mite, 

Luddy-Dud! 


The  bird  to  the  tossing  clover, 
The  bee  to  the  swaying  bud, 
Keep  singing  that  sweet  song  over 
Of  wee  little  Luddy-Dud. 

'Tis  little  Luddy-Dud  in  the  morning, 
'Tis  little  Luddy-Dud  at  night; 
And  all  day  long 
'Tis  the  same  dear  song 
Of  that  growing,  crowing,   knowing   little 
sprite, 

Luddy-Dud! 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  115 

Luddy-Dud 's  cradle  is  swinging 

Where  softly  the  night  winds  blow. 
And  Luddy-Dud's  mother  is  singing 
A  song  that  is  sweet  and  low; 

}Tis  little  Luddy-Dud  in  the  morning, 
7Tis  little  Luddy-Dud  at  night; 
And  all  day  long 
'Tis  the  same  sweet  song 
Of  my  nearest  and  my  dearest  heart's  de 
light, 

Luddy-Dud! 


116  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


A  WESTERN  BOY'S  LAMENT. 


I  wished  I  lived  away  down  'east  where  codfish 

salt  the  sea, 
And  where  the  folks  have  pumpkin  pie  and  apple 

sass  for  tea, 
Us  boys  who's  livin'  here  out  west  don't  get  more'n 

half  a  show 
We  don't  have  nothin'  else  to  do  but  jest  to  sort 

o'  grow. 


Oh,  if  I  was  a  bird  I'd  fly  a  million  miles  away 
To  where  they  feed  their  boys  on  pork  and  beans 

three  times  a  day; 
To  where  the  place  they  call  the  Hub  gives  out  its 

shiny  spokes, 
And  where  the  folks — so  father  says — is  mostly 

women  folks. 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  117 


MY  PLAYMATES. 


The  wind  comes  whispering  to  me  of  the  country 
green  and  cool — 

Of  redwing  blackbirds  chattering  beside  a  reedy 
pool; 

It  brings  me  soothing  fancies  of  the  homestead  on 
the  hill, 

And  I  hear  the  thrush's  evening  song  and  the 
robin's  morning  trill; 

So  I  fall  to  thinking  tenderly  of  those  I  used  to 
know 

Where  the  sassafras  and  snakeroot  and  checker- 
berries  grow. 

What  has  become  of  Ezra  Marsh  who  lived  on 
Bunker's  hill? 

And  what's  become  of  Noble  Pratt  whose  father 
kept  the  mill? 

And  what's  become  of  Lizzie  Crum  and  Anastasia 
Snell? 

And  of  Roxie  Root  who  'tended  school  in  Boston 
for  a  spell? 

They  were  the  boys  and  they  were  the  girls  who 
shared  my  youthful  play — 

They  do  not  answer  to  my  call!  My  playmates— 
where  are  they  all? 


118  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 

What  has  become  of  Levi  and  his  little  brother  Joe 
Who  lived  next  door  to  where  we  lived  some  forty 

years  ago? 
I  'd  like  to  see  the  Newton  boys  and  Quincy  Adams 

Brown, 
And  Hepsy  Hall  and  Ella  Cowles  who  spelled  the 

whole  school  down! 
And  Gracie  Smith,  the  Cutler  boys,  Leander  Snow 

and  all 
Who  I  am  sure  would  answer  could  they  only  hear 

my  call! 


I'd  like  to  see  Bill  Warner  and  the  Conkey  boys 
again 

And  talk  about  the  times  we  used  to  wish  that  we 
were  men! 

And  one — I  shall  not  name  her — could  I  see  her 
gentle  face 

And  hear  her  girlish  treble  in  this  distant  lonely 
place ! 

The  flowers  and  hopes  of  springtime — they  per 
ished  long  ago, 

And  the  garden  where  they  blossomed  is  white  with 
winter  snow. 


0  cottage  'neath  the  maples,  have  you  seen  those 

girls  and  boys 
That  but  a  little  while  ago  made,  oh !  such  pleasant 

noise  ? 


IN  W1NK-A-WAY  LAND.  119 

0  trees,  and  hills,  and  brooks,  and  lanes,  and  mead 
ows,  do  you  know 
Where  I  shall  find  my  little  friends  of  forty  years 


You  see  I'm  old  and  weary,  and  I've  traveled  long 

and  far! 
I  am  looking  for  my  playmates — I  wonder  where 

they  are ! 


120  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


THE  DREAMS. 


Two  dreams  came  down  to  earth  one  night 
From  the  realm  of  mist  and  dew; 

One  was  a  dream  of  the  old,  old  days, 
And  one  was  a  dream  of  the  new. 


One  was  a  dream  of  a  shady  lane 

That  led  to  the  pickerel  pond, 
Where  the  willows  and  rushes  bowed  themselves 

To  the  brown  old  hills  beyond. 


And  the  people  that  peopled  the  old  time  dream 

Were  pleasant  and  fair  to  see, 
And  the  dreamer  he  walked  with  them  again 

As  often  of  old  walked  he. 


Oh,  cool  was  the  wind  in  the  shady  lane 

That  tangled  his  curly  hair! 
Oh,  sweet  was  the  music  the  robins  made 

To  the  springtime  everywhere! 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  121 

Was  it  the  dew  the  dream  had  brought 

From  yonder  midnight  skies, 
Or  was  it  tears  from  the  dear,  dead  years 

That  lay  in  the  dreamer's  eyes? 


The  other  dream  ran  fast  and  free, 
As  the  moon  benignly  shed 

Her  golden  grace  on  the  smiling  face 
In  the  little  trundle-bed. 


For  'twas  a  dream  of  times  to  come — 

Of  the  glorious  noon  of  day— 
Of  the  summer  that  follows  the  careless  spring 

When  the  child  is  done  with  play. 


And  'twas  a  dream  of  the  busy  world 
Where  valorous  deeds  are  done; 

Of  battles  fought  in  the  cause  of  right, 
And  of  victories  nobly  won. 


It  breathed  no  breath  of  the  dear  old  home 

And  the  quiet  joys  of  youth; 
It  gave  no  glimpse  of  the  good  old  friends 

Of  the  old-time  faith  and  truth. 


122  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 

But  'twas  a  dream  of  youthful  hopes, 

And  fast  and  free  it  ran, 
And  it  told  to  a  little  sleeping  child 

Of  a  boy  become  a  man! 


These  were  the  dreams  that  came  one  night 

To  earth  from  yonder  sky; 
These  were  the  dreams  two  dreamers  dreamed, 

My  little  boy  and  I. 


And  in  our  hearts  my  boy  and  I 

Were  glad  it  was  so; 
He  loved  to  dream  of  days  to  come, 

And  I  of  long  ago. 


So  from  our  dreams  my  boy  and  I 

Unwillingly  awoke, 
But  neither  of  his  precious  dream 

Unto  the  other  spoke. 


Yet  of  the  love  we  bore  these  dreams 
Gave  each  his  tender  sign; 

For  there  was  triumph  in  his  eyes — 
And  there  were  tears  in  mine! 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  123 


THE  DREAM  SHIP. 


When  all  the  world  is  fast  asleep, 

Along  the  midnight  skies — 
As  though  it  were  a  wandering  cloud- 

The  ghostly  Dream-Ship  flies. 


An  angel  stands  at  the  Dream-Ship's  helm, 

An  angel  stands  at  the  prow, 
And   an  angel  stands  at   the   Dream-Ship's  side 

With  a  rue-wreath  on  her  brow. 


The  other  angels,  silver-crowned, 

Pilot  and  helmsman  are, 
But  the  angel  with  the  wreath  of  rue 

Tosseth  the  dreams  afar. 


The  dreams  they  fall  on  rich  and  poor, 
They  fall  on  young  and  old; 

And  some  are  dreams  of  poverty 
And  some  are  dreams  of  gold. 


124  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 

And  some  are  dreams  that  thrill  with  joy, 

And  some  that  melt  to  tears; 
Some  are  dreams  of  the  dawn  of  love, 

And  some  of  the  old,  dead  years. 


On  rich  and  poor  alike  they  fall, 

Alike  on  young  and  old, 
Bringing  to  slumbering  earth  their  joys 

And  sorrows  manifold. 


The  friendless  youth  in  them  shall  do 

The  deeds  of  mighty  men, 
And  drooping  age  shall  feel  the  grace 

Of  buoyant  youth  again. 


The  king  shall  be  a  beggarman, 

The  pauper  be  a  king, 
In  that  revenge  of  recompense 

The  Dream-Ship  dreams  do  bring. 


So  ever  downward  float  the  dreams 
That  are  for  all  and  me, 

And  there  is  never  mortal  man 
Can  solve  that  mystery. 


IN  WlNK-A-WAY  LAND.  125 

But  ever  onward  in  its  course 

Along  the  haunted  skies — 
As  though  it  were  a  cloud  astray — 

The  ghostly  Dream-Ship  flies. 


Two  angels  with  their  silver  crowns 

Pilot  and  helmsman  are, 
And  an  angel  with  a  wreath  of  rue 

Tosseth  the  dreams  afar. 


126  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 


How  fair  you  are,  my  mother! 

Ah,  though   'tis  many  a  year 

Since  you  were  here, 
Still  do  I  see  your  beauteous  face, 

And  with  the  glow 
Of  your  dark  eyes  cometh  a  grace 

Of  long  ago. 
So  gentle,  too,  my  mother; 

Just  as  of  old,  upon  my  brow, 

Like  benedictions  now, 
Falleth  your  dear  hand's  touch, 

And  still,  as  then, 
A  voice  that  glads  me  overmuch 

Cometh  again, 
My  fair  and  gentle  mother! 


How  you  have  loved  me,  mother, 

I  have  not  power  to  tell — 

Knowing  full  well 
That  even  in  the  rest  Above 

It  is  your  will 
To  watch  and   guard   me  with  your  love, 

Loving  me  still, 
And,  as  of  old,  my  mother. 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  127 

I  am  content  to  be  a  child, 

By  mother's  love  beguiled 
From  all  these  other  charms, 

So,  to  the  last, 
Within  thy  dear,  protecting  arms 

Hold  thou  me  fast, 
My  guardian  angel,  mother  I 


128  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 


Oh,  hush  thee,  little  Dear-My-Soul, 
The  evening  shades  are  falling — 

Hush  thee,  my  dear — dost  thou  not  hear 
The  voice  of  the  Master  calling? 


Deep  lies  the  snow  upon  the  earth, 

But  all  the  sky  is  ringing 
With  joyous  song,  and  all  night  long 

The  stars  shall  dance,  with  singing, 


Oh,  hush  thee,  little  Dear-My-Soul, 
And  close  thine  eyes  in  dreaming, 

And  angels  fair  shall  lead  thee  where 
The  singing  stars  are  beaming; 


A  shepherd  calls  his  little  lambs, 
And  he  longeth  to  caress  them; 

He  bids  them  rest  upon  his  breast 
That  his  tender  love  may  bless  them. 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  129 

So,  hush  thee,  little  Dear-My-Soul, 
Whilst  evening  shades  are  falling, 

And  above  the  song  of  the  heavenly  throng 
Thou  shalt  hear  the  Master  calling. 


130  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


BERANGER'S  "BROKEN  FIDDLE." 


There,  there,  poor  dog,  my  faithful  friend, 
Pay  you  no  heed  unto  my  sorrow; 

But  feast  to-day  while  yet  you  may — 

Who  knows  but  we  shall  starve  to-morrow! 

II. 

"Give  us  a  tune,"  the  foemen  cried, 
In  one  of  their  profane  caprices; 

I  bade  them  "No" — they  frowned,  and,  lo! 
They  dashed  this  innocent  in  pieces! 

III. 

This  fiddle  was  the  village  pride — 
The  mirth  of  every  fete  enhancing; 

Its  wizard  art  set  every  heart 
As  well  as  every  foot  to  dancing. 

IV. 

How  well  the  bridegroom  knew  its  voice, 
As  from  its  strings  its  song  went  gushing, 

Nor  long  delayed  the  promised  maid 
Equipped  for  bridal,  coy  and  blushing. 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  131 

V. 

Why,  it  discoursed  so  merrily, 

It  quickly  banished  all  dejection, 
And  yet,  when  pressed,  the  priest  confessed 

I  played  with  pious  circumspection. 

VI. 

And  though,  in  patriotic  song, 

It  was  our  guide,  compatriot,  teacher, 

I  never  thought  the  foe  had  wrought 
His  fury  on  the  helpless  creature! 

VII. 

But  there,  poor  dog,  my  faithful  friend, 
Pay  you  no  heed  unto  my  sorrow; 

I  prithee  take  this  paltry  cake — 

Who  knows  but  we  shall  starve  to-morrow ! 

VIII. 

Ah,  who  shall  lead  the  Sunday  choir 

As  this  old  fiddle  used  to  do  it? 
Can  vintage  come,  with  this  voice  dumb 

That  used  to  bid  a  welcome  to  it? 

IX. 

It  soothed  the  weary  hours  of  toil, 
It  brought  forgetfulness  to  debtors; 

Time  and  again  from  wretched  men 
It  struck  oppression's  galling  fetters. 


132  7AT  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 

X. 

No  man  could  hear  its  voice,  and  hate, 
It  staid  the  tear  drop  at  its  portal — 

With  that  dear  thing  I  was  a  king 
As  never  yet  was  monarch  mortal! 

XI. 

Now  has  the  foe — the  vandal  foe — 

Struck  from  their  hands  their  pride  and  glory; 
There  let  it  lie!     In  vengeance,  I 

Shall  wield  another  weapon,  gory! 

XII. 

And  if,  0  countrymen,  I  fall, 

Beside  our  grave  let  this  be  spoken; 

"No  foe  of  France  shall  ever  dance 
Above  the  heart  and  fiddle,  broken!" 

XIII. 

So  come,  poor  dog,  my  faithful  friend, 

I  prithee  do  not  heed  my  sorrow, 
But  feast  to-day  while  yet  you  may, 

For  we  are  like  to  starve  to-morrow. 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  133 


MARY  SMITH. 


Away  down  east,  where  I  was  reared  among  my 

Yankee  kith, 
There  used  to  live  a  pretty  girl  whose  name  was 

Mary  Smith; 
And  though  it's  many  years  since  last  I  saw  that 

pretty  girl, 
And  though  I  feel  I  'm  sadly  worn  by  western  strife 

and  whirl, 
Still,  oftentimes,  I  think  about  the  old  familiar 

place, 
Which,  some  way,  seemed  the  brighter  for  Miss 

Mary's  pretty  face, 
And  in  my  heart  I  feel  once  more  revivified  the 

glow 
I  used  to  feel  in  those  old  times  when  I  was  Mary  '& 

beau. 


I  saw  her  home  from  singing  school — she  warbled 

like  a  bird — 

A  sweeter  voice  for  song  or  speech  I  never  heard! 
She  was  soprano  in  the  choir,  and  I  a  solemn  bass, 
And  when  we  unisoned  our  voices  filled  that  holy 

place ; 


134  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 

The  tenor  and  the  alto  never  had    the    slightest 

chance, 
For  Mary 's  upper  register  made  every  heart-string 

dance, 
And,  as  for  me,  I  shall  not  brag ;  and  yet  I  'd  have 

you  know 
I  sung  a  very  likely  bass  when  I  was  Mary's  beau. 


On  Friday  nights  I'd  drop  around  to  make  my 

weekly  call, 
And,  though  I  came  to  visit  her,  I'd  have  to  see 

'em  all! 
With  Mary's  mother  sitting  here  and  Mary's  father 

there, 
The  conversation  never  flagged    as    far    as    I'm 

aware ; 
Sometimes  I'd  hold  her  worsted,  sometimes  we'd 

play  at  games, 
Sometimes  dissect  the  apples  which  we'd  named 

each  other's  names — 
Oh,  how  I  loathed  the  shrill-toned  clock  that  told 

me  when  to  go — 
'Twas  ten  o'clock  at  half -past  eight  when  I  was 

Mary's  beau! 


Now  there  was  Luther  Baker — because  he'd  come 

of  age 
And  thought  himself  some  pumpkins  because  he 

drove  the  stage — 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  135 

He  fancied  he  could  cut  me  out ;  but  Mary  was  my 

friend — 

Elsewise  I  'm  sure  the  issue  had  had  a  tragic  end ! 
For  Luther  Baker  was  a  man  I  never  could  abide, 
And  when  it  came  to  Mary,  either  he  or  I  had 

died! 

I  merely  cite  this  instance  incidentally  to  show 
That  I  was  quite  in  earnest  when  I  was  Mary's 

beau! 


How  often  now  those  sights,  those  pleasant  sights 

recur  again ; 
The  little  township  that  was  all  the  world  I  knew 

of  then — 
The  meeting  house  upon  the  hill,  the  tavern  just 

beyond, 
Old  Deacon  Packard's  general  store,  the  saw-mill 

by  the  pond, 
The  village  elms  I  vainly  sought  to  conquer  in  my 

quest 

Of  that  surpassing  trophy,  the  golden  oriole's  nest! 
And,  best  of  all,  those  visions  that  come  back  from 

long  ago, 
The  pretty  face  that  thrilled  my  soul  when  I  was 

Mary's  beau! 

Hush,  gentle  wife,  there  is  no  need  a  pang  should 

vex  your  heart — 
'Tis  many  years  since  fate  ordained  that  she  and 

I  should  part; 


136  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 

To  each  a  true,  maturer  love  came  in  good  time, 
and  yet 

It  brought  not  with  it  noble  grace  the  power  to 
forget, 

And  would  you  fain  begrudge  me  now  the  senti 
mental  joy 

That  conies  with  recollections  of  my  sparkings 
when  a  boy? 

I  warrant  me  that  were  your  heart  put  to  the  rack 
'twould  show 

That  it  had  predilections  when  I  was  Mary 's  beau ! 

And,  Mary,  should  these  lines  of  mine  seek  out 

your  biding  place, 
God  grant  they  bring  the  old  sweet  smile  back  to 

your  pretty  face — 
God  grant  they  bring  you  thoughts  of  me,  not  as 

I  am  to-day, 
With  faltering  step  and  dimming  eyes  and  aspect 

grimly  gray; 
But  thoughts  that  picture  me  as  fair  and  full  of 

life  and  glee 
As  we  were  in  the  olden  time — as  you  shall  always 

be! 
Think  of  me  ever,  Mary,  as  the  boy  you  used  to 

know 
When  time  was  fleet  and  life  was  sweet,  and  I  was 

Mary's  beau. 

(Dear  hills  of  old  New  England,  look  down  with 
tender  eyes 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  137 

Upon  one  little,  lonely  grave  that  in  your  bosom 

lies; 
For  in  that  cradle  sleeps  a  child  who  was  so  fair 

to  see 
God  yearned  to  have  unto  Himself  the    joy    she 

brought  to  me ; 
And  bid  your  winds  sing  soft  and  low  the  song  of 

other   days, 
When,  hand  in  hand  and  heart  to  heart,  we  went 

our  pleasant  ways — 
Ah  me,  but  could  I  sing  again  that  song  of  long 

ago, 
Instead  of  this  poor,  idle  song  of  being  Mary's 

beau!) 


138  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 


IN  THE  COURT  OF  HONOR. 


A  sense  of  good  upspringing, 
Of  valor  roused  and  ready, 

Of  voices  tuned  for  singing, 
Of  movement  onward,  steady, 

And  full  of  purpose  grand, 
Falls  on  men  mutely  gazing 
Upon  this  scene  amazing, 

This  court  of  wonderland. 


Pale  domes  so  vast  and  gracious, 
Lift  up  the  radiant  azure, 

Where  shows  the  portal  spacious, 
Bright  as  the  dawn's  embrasure, 

Large-limbed  and  girt  with  power, 
Their  faces  calm  and  wise, 
Look  down  with  serious  eyes, 

The  genii  of  the  hour. 


The  sky  is  full  of  voices, 
"Wings  winnow  all  the  air; 

In  strength  men's  thought   rejoices 
Amid  companions  rare, 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  139 

Joys  flutter  at  their  feet, 

World  spirits  call  and  beckon, 

With  life  they  gladly  reckon, 
It  is  so  strange  and  sweet. 


140  IN  WINK-A-W AY  LAND. 


FRENCH'S  "REPUBLIC.3 


She  is  calm  and  great, 
She  standeth  lone; 

Honors  on  her  wait, 
Peace  is  her  throne. 


Large  purpose  in  her  eyes, 

No  fear  she  hath. 
Comes   'neath  her  kindly  skies 

Not  peril  nor  scath. 


Potent  the  will  of  her 
In  her  true  breast, 

Like  to  God's  messenger 
Her  ways  are  blest. 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  141 


HYMN:    MIDNIGHT  HOUR. 


Midnight  hour!  how  sweet  the  calm 

Thy  solemn  cadences  impart; 
What  solace,  as  of  healing  balm, 

Cometh  with  thee  unto  this  heart ! 
Yet  bring  me  not  thy  grace,  alone — 

Let  others  share  thy  dear  delight — 
Oh,  let  thy  soothing  monotone 

Be  heard  of  all  this  holy  Night! 


Anon  shall  angels  walk  the  sky, 

The  stars  cry  out  in  rapturous  glee, 
And  radiant  splendors  glorify 

The  waking  earth  and  wondering  sea ; 
Jehovah's  reassuring  word 

Shall  be  proclaimed  abroad  again, 
And  tidings  everywhere  be  heard 

Of  peace  on  earth,  good- will  to  men! 


'Tis  of  those  glories  of  the  morn, 
The  sacrifice  that  makes  man  free, 

And  of  the  Babe  in  Bethlehem  born 
That  midnight  voices  speak  to  me. 


142  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 

Speak  on,  0  voices,  sweet  and  low — 
Soothing  our  griefs  and  doubts  away — 

That  all  mankind  may  hear  and  know 
What  rapture  cometh  with  the  Day! 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  143 


CHRISTMAS  MORNING. 


The  angel  host  that  sped  last  night, 
Bearing  the  wondrous  news  afar, 

Came  in  their  ever-glorious  flight 
Unto  a  slumbering  little  star. 


" Awake  and  sing,  0  star!"  they  cried; 

' ' Awake  and  glorify  the  morn! 
Herald  the  tidings  far  and  wide — 

He  that  shall  lead  His  flock  is  born!" 


The  little  star  awoke  and  sung 
As  only  stars  in  rapture  may, 

And  presently  where  church  bells  hung 
The  joyous  tidings  found  their  way. 


" Awake,  O  Bells;  'tis  Christmas  morn — 
Awake  and  let  thy  music  tell 

To  all  mankind  that  now  is  born 
What  Shepherd  loves  His  lambkins  well ! ' ' 


144  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 

Then  rang  the  bells  as  fled  the  night 
O'er  dreaming  land  and  drowsing  deep, 

And,  coming  with  the  morning  light, 
They  called,  my  child,  to  you  asleep. 


Sweetly  and  tenderly  they  spoke, 
And,  lingering  round  your  little  bed, 

Their  music  pleaded  till  you  woke, 
And  this  is  what  their  music  said : 


''Awake  and  sing!  'tis  Christmas  morn, 
Whereon  all  earth  salutes  her  King; 

In  Bethlehem  is  the  Shepherd  born — 
Awake,  0  little  lamb!  and  sing." 


So,  dear  my  child,  kneel  at  my  knee, 
And  with  those  voices  from  above 

Share  thou  this  holy  time  with  me, 
The  universal  hymn  of  love! 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  145 


HOLLY  AND  IVY. 


Holly  standeth  in  ye  house 
When  that  Noel  draweth  near; 

Evermore  at  ye  door 

Standeth  Ivy,  shivering  sore 

In  ye  night  wind  bleak  and  drear; 

And,  as  weary  hours  go  by, 

Doth  ye  one  to  other  cry. 


"Sister  Ivy,"  Holly  quoth, 

" Brightly  burns  the  yule-log  here; 
And  love  brings  beauteous  things 
While  a  guardian  angel  sings 

To  the  babes  that  slumber  near, 
But,  0  Ivy,  tell  me  now 
What  without  there  seest  thou?" 


''Sister  Holly,"  Ivy  quoth, 

"With  fair  music  conies  ye  Morn, 

And  afar  burns  ye  Star 

Where  ye  wondering  shepherds  are, 
And  ye  Shepherd  King  is  born: 

'Peace  on  earth — good  will  to  men/ 

Angels  cry,  and  cry  again!" 


146  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 

Holly  standeth  in  ye  house 
When  that  Noel  draweth  near; 

Clambering  o'er  yonder  door 

Ivy  standeth  evermore. 
And  to  them  that  rightly  hear 

Each  one  speaketh  of  ye  love 

That  outpoureth  from  Above. 


IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND.  147 


TO  THE  PASSING  SAINT. 


As  to-night  you  came  your  way, 
Bearing  earthward  heavenly  joy, 

Tell  me,  0  dear  saint,  I  pray, 
Did  you  see  my  little  boy? 


By  some  fairer  voice  beguiled, 

Once  he  wandered  from  my  sight — 

He  is  such  a  little  child, 

He  should  have  my  love  this  night! 


It  has  been  so  many  a  year — 
Oh!  so  many  a  year  since  then! 

Yet  he  was  so  very  dear, 
Surely  he  shall  come  again! 


If  upon  your  way  you  see 
One  whose  beauty  is  divine, 

Will  you  send  him  back  to  me? 
He  is  lost,  and  he  is  mine! 


148  IN  WINK-A-WAY  LAND. 

Tell  him  that  his  little  chair 
Nestles  where  the  sunbeams  meet; 

That  the  shoes  he  used  to  wear 
Yearn  to  kiss  his  dimpled  feet. 


Tell  him  of  each  pretty  toy 

That  was  wont  to  share  his  glee — 

Maybe  that  will  bring  my  boy 
Back  to  them  and  back  to  me! 


0  dear  saint,  as  on  you  go 

Through  the  glad  and  sparkling  frost 
Bid  those  bells  ring  high  and  low 

For  a  little  child  that's  lost! 


0  dear  saint,  that  blesseth  men 
With  the  grace  of  Christmas  joy, 

Soothe  this  heart  with  love  again — 
Give  me  back  my  little  boy! 


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